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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345842">The Abigail Variations</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/videcormeum/pseuds/videcormeum'>videcormeum</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the 'variations' verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hannibal (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>... or is he, Adopted Abigail Hobbs, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Domestic, Ambiguous Cannibalism, Case Fic, Defending Jacob au, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Happy Murder Family, Married Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Murder Family, Murder Husbands, Will Graham &amp; Beverly Katz Friendship, Will Graham is a Good Dad, based on a book, kind of, more angst i'm sorry</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-26</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 20:14:47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>53,755</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28345842</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/videcormeum/pseuds/videcormeum</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Lecter-Grahams are a happy family, until they’re not.</p><p>When Abigail is accused of murdering one of her classmates, Will’s family is tested. How far will he go to protect what he loves?</p><p>A Defending Jacob AU.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Alana Bloom/Margot Verger, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the 'variations' verse [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192310</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>65</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>125</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Preludes, Op. 28: No 4 in E Minor</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this fic is based on the novel 'defending jacob' by william landay (and the apple tv+ series adapted from it). it follows the original fairly closely, but you don't need to have read the book or seen the series to understand it. essentially, i wanted an excuse to write some domestic murder family. enjoy! &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <em>September 13, 2019.</em> </b> <b> <em><br/></em> </b> <b> <em>Transcript of interview with key witness, in relation to the homicide of Marissa Schurr.</em> </b></p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: State your name, please. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Will Graham. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: What do you do for work, Mr Graham? </em>
</p><hr/><p>“Really, Jack?” Will Graham asked. His arms were crossed over his chest, fingers drumming on his rolled up shirtsleeve. “Do we have to do all this?”</p><p>Jack Crawford was undeterred, “Just answer the question.”</p><p>With a sigh, Will leaned forward and planted his elbows firmly on the metal table, pointedly placing himself closer to the recording device.</p><p>“I was a professor and criminal profiler with the Behavioral Science Unit of the FBI for fifteen years.”</p><p>“And what do you do now?”</p><p>Jack gave no indication of relenting. From years of working beneath him, he knew that not much could ruffle Jack’s feathers. Not even a decade of friendship could dissuade him from uncovering what he believed to be true. </p><p>“I guess you could say I’m unemployed.”</p><p>It was almost a joke, but Jack didn’t laugh. He reviewed the manila folder on the table, and Will could hear every thought running through his head as if he’d said it out loud. High empathy had its restrictions during investigations, but Jack wasn’t a killer or a witness that he’d meet one time; their history had strengthened Will’s capability to read him. He knew every tell, every tick of his brow, every aged line of his face. </p><p>In this instance, however, he didn’t need empathy; he knew what Jack was thinking because it was exactly what he had taught Will long ago: no matter how weak your case is, stick to it. Play the game until it’s done, and continue after if you must.</p><p>“Do you recall when you first heard about Marissa Schurr’s murder?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Can you describe it for me?”</p><p>“You—” Jack clicked his tongue. Will bit back a scathing comment and corrected himself. “Agent Crawford called me the morning of September 23, 2018. A body had been discovered near a popular walking trail in Wolf Trap, Virginia.”</p><p>“Was this type of call a common occurrence?”</p><p>“Yo—<em> Agent Crawford </em>was concerned that it could be another victim of the Chesapeake Ripper, a case we had been working together for a number of years. I deduced that it wasn’t.”</p><p>“Why did you choose to continue working the case, if you thought it wasn’t the work of the Ripper? Surely your time would have been better spent elsewhere.”</p><p>“The Ripper hadn’t been active for months, his pattern up to that point suggested that it was unlikely he’d kill again for at least a year,” Will said. “There were no witnesses, no evidence; they needed me.”</p><p>Jack hummed. “Wasn’t the victim a classmate of your daughter, Abigail?”</p><p>“Jack.”</p><p>Jack’s eyebrow ticked, but he stood his ground. It was all Will could do to not squirm under the relentless eye contact, so he looked down at his own hands. He picked at the calloused surface of his thumb with the blunt nail of his index. “Yes, she was. As far as I’m concerned they weren’t close.”</p><p>“They’d had a falling out, is that right?”</p><p>“Years ago,” Will said, clipped. "They were friends when they were kids. Marissa’s mother made some comments about the… nature of our family, and Abigail was upset. They hadn’t spoken in years.”</p><p>“And what <em> nature </em>would that be?”</p><p>It sounded objective enough, but Will knew exactly what he meant. He had been on the other side of this table more than enough. He met Jack’s eyes. He wouldn’t give him what he wanted.</p><p>“She was unhappy that my daughter was being raised by two men.”</p><p>“Was this why you felt inclined to take the case? Because of your personal connection to the Schurrs?”</p><p>“I felt inclined to take the case because <em> you </em> told me to take the case.”</p><p>“And, considering your family’s history with the Schurr’s, you didn’t think your objectivity would be called into question?”</p><p>Will tried to keep his voice level, but he couldn’t stop it from coming out with a sharp edge, "I didn’t think a snide comment made by a homophobic parent years prior would be grounds to question my objectivity.”</p><p>“Right.”</p><p>Jack looked back down at his file. There was no point in pursuing that any further; Will had made it perfectly clear that he wasn’t changing his stance on that matter for now. He would come back to it later on, no doubt, probably after leaving him alone in the room for a while. Will expected him to get up from the table and leave him to sweat.</p><p>It was a surprise when he spoke again, “You understand your Fifth Amendment rights?”</p><p>“I do.”</p><p>“And you’ve waived them?”</p><p><em> Obviously.</em> “I’m talking, aren’t I?”</p><p>Jack’s eyes narrowed a fraction, the biggest reaction that Will had managed to tug from him so far. Interviewing with him was like pulling teeth.</p><p>“Why now? It’s been nearly a year since the girl’s body was found; why not invoke them? You could have waited for the case to go cold, skipped town and moved on.”</p><p>The rest he left unsaid: <em> That’s what I would do. </em></p><p>“I didn’t invoke them because I have nothing to hide,” Will said. Two could play at Jack’s game. “I want justice for Marissa Schurr, as much as you do.”</p><p>Jack wasn’t convinced. “No matter what?”</p><p>“No matter what.”</p><p>“Okay.” Jack flipped through the file, pushed his glasses up the flat bridge of his nose, and looked back up. “Did you know that Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Contredanse in G-Flat Major</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b> <em>September 28, 2018</em> </b> <b> <em><br/></em> </b> <em> One year earlier. </em></p><p>It seemed that the entire population of Wolf Trap, Virginia was in the Lecter-Graham home. The house easily accommodated most of Hannibal’s ambitious events, but it was fit to burst on this morbid occasion.</p><p>Hannibal had made hosting the first day of the Shiva seem like the only logical option. Marissa's father, Alistair, had been a colleague of his at the hospital, and Hannibal had been thinking a lot about Abigail and grief and time. He would have offered to cater, anyway, and their house was one of the largest in town. He said as much to Will, who wasn't happy with the idea, but soon found himself bumping elbows with townsfolk in his dining room. </p><p>He caught snippets of conversation that he’d heard thousands of times that evening; Columbine, 9/11, the last time they’d seen Marissa Schurr at the market. They skirted politely around the specifics, although Will was sure they were waiting with baited breath to hear every gory detail.</p><p>Today, the details didn’t matter. The town had lost a child, and they were all loving the drama.</p><p>Despite the teenagers gathered on the far side, the lounge was quieter than the dining room. Abigail was perched delicately on the arm of a couch, staring dazedly into middle-distance while her peers spoke in hushed tones. Will raised a hand, and she raised hers with a tight smile. He moved on.</p><p>Scattered, sparse groups of adults made up the rest of the room's occupancy. Some were parents, others members of the Schurrs’ advanced network of friends.</p><p>Among them was Alana Bloom, one of the only people Will and Hannibal had invited themselves. Her hair — usually worn loose — was pulled back into a sensible bun. She caught his arm.</p><p>“He’s in the kitchen,” she said, of Will’s husband. </p><p>Will tried to smile and found himself too tense.</p><p>“Naturally.”</p><p>She gave him a once-over and drifted back to the group she had been entertaining, rubbing a hand over the back of a weeping mother. He slipped through the double doors that led into the kitchen, and found the rest of the husbands.</p><p>Hannibal arranged hors d'oeuvres on a platter at the island. The dish towel slung over his shoulder juxtaposed marvellously with the careful neatness of his suit. Their shaggy border collie, Allen, hung around his feet hopefully. A stout man with an ill-fitting suit and a balding head hung around, too, undoubtedly prying for a crumb of information.</p><p>As the sun was bound to keep all planets in its orbit, Will gravitated to Hannibal. He scratched between the dog's ears, and Hannibal greeted him with a kiss, causing the man to make a swift exit.</p><p>Hannibal’s lip quirked, because he was an evil man who lived for making small-minded people uncomfortable. </p><p>“Is everything alright, Will?”</p><p>Small talk was wildly uncomfortable, and talking about his job was even worse. He was an open wound and Hannibal knew it. </p><p>He nodded his understanding and smoothed a hand up over the ridges of Will's spine. “Have you seen Alana?”</p><p>Will gestured in the vague direction of the doors.</p><p>“She’s mothering the mothers.”</p><p>“Well, we could all use a little mothering right now, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Yeah." Will’s eyes fluttered shut as Hannibal’s thumb flicked over his cheek. The touch retreated, and he blinked. “I think I’m gonna head up. I can’t… be around these people anymore.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled. “See if Abigail wants to go up too. She's far too polite to leave on her own.”</p><p>Will pressed his grateful smile against Hannibal’s mouth and headed past inquisitive stares into the living room.</p><p>Alana had disappeared in search of somebody else to therapize, but Abigail hadn’t moved. She jumped a little when he pressed a hand to her shoulder.</p><p>He had an excuse pre-prepared.</p><p>“Abigail, your dad needs—”</p><p>An unfamiliar voice came from the group, “Mr Graham?”</p><p>The girl who had spoken was sat on the detailed rug between the couches. Her blotchy cheeks were still slightly plump with childhood puppy fat, and mascara was smudged around her eyes. He recognised her instantly: Adelaide Schurr, Marissa’s younger sister.</p><p>Just from looking at her, his heart grew heavy with her grief. He clutched the pendulum tight. It would not swing, not here.</p><p>“Is it true you’re gonna catch the guy who did it?”</p><p>All of the teenagers’ eyes turned on him.</p><p>The academy had taught him to avoid making promises that he couldn’t keep. Adelaide's grief crept up his throat and pooled on his tongue. It was acidic, thick as treacle. </p><p>“Yes."</p><p>The girl sniffed. “Do you know why he did it?”</p><p>A dozen pairs of eyes awaited his response. </p><p>“Not yet,” he said, “but we will.”</p><p>“Please find him.”</p><p>Her voice cracked, and she melted into the girl beside her, wracked with sobs. </p><p>Abigail met his eyes with a fervent desperation, and they made their escape.</p><p>In the kitchen, Hannibal had been swarmed for the hors d'oeuvres. He winked over the guests' heads when he caught his family heading for the stairs.</p><p>“Thanks for saving me,” Abigail said as they ascended to the first floor. “I was losing my mind back there. Everyone was just so…”</p><p>She trailed off, and worried her lip between her teeth.</p><p>“Sad?” he suggested.</p><p>“I guess.”</p><p>“You <em> guess?</em> It’s a Shiva.”</p><p>“It kinda felt like we were performing. Like, we all know that we <em> have </em>to be sad, so we play at it, but it’s all just an act,"—she tugged at her shirtsleeves—"I should feel sad, right?”</p><p>“You shouldn’t feel anything you don’t want to feel.”</p><p>She folded into him when he touched the top of her arm. He tucked his chin over her head and felt the soft hair that fell over her shoulders.</p><p>As a kid, she would pad across the hall every morning and climb into their bed to cuddle for an hour before the waking world needed them. The sixteen year old in his arms wasn’t all that different, he supposed. She’d become a little surlier as a teenager, a little more reclusive and confident in answering back. </p><p><em> Typical adolescent behavior,</em> Hannibal had said. <em> She is trying out different personas, preparing to leave her childhood behind and fly the nest. </em></p><p>Selfishly, Will didn’t want her to leave her childhood behind. What was he, if not her father?</p><p>She pushed him away with hands on his arms. “Okay, this is getting too gushy.”</p><p>There it was, the adolescent defiance.</p><p>He held his hands up and stepped back, willing to let her set her own boundaries and follow them. All the books on raising teenagers had come in handy in the end, even if Hannibal had raised eyebrows at them.</p><p>“You started it,” he said.</p><p>She rolled her eyes, “Night, dad.”</p><p>“Goodnight, guppy.”</p><p>She resided to her room with a final sleepy smile.</p><p>In the master bedroom, Will found two more dogs on the bed, in amongst the scattered contents of his messenger bag where he'd thrown it earlier.</p><p>They jumped down and scarpered off when he started to scrape the manila folders into a pile.  He sorted them carefully into lecture material and current cases, sliding photos into folders and the folders into his bag, and his fingernail caught on a stray crime scene photo.</p><p>He lifted it out, and studied Marissa Schurr's face. He could recall her autopsy from memory.</p><p>Her killer had been careful with his knife when he'd cut her throat, like a butcher, and had been even more careful when stringing her body up. Using a simple lever system using a branch and several knots commonly used by hunters, he'd managed to string her up between two thick trees.</p><p>The presentation factor had Will's boss convinced that it was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper, even though they were far out of his regular hunting grounds. Will didn't believe that.</p><p>Marissa had been found in a heavily wooded area in the middle of a nature reserve, a breeding ground for foxes and coyotes. If she hadn't been strung up as she was, there wouldn't have been enough of her left to identify. The most challenging aspect of the case so far had been convincing Jack of that fact.</p><p>“I should have known better than to assume you’d be asleep.”</p><p>He glanced up. Hannibal had shed his jacket and tie, so the tanned line of his throat was exposed by his open collar. His sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, cufflinks probably discarded in a pocket or on a side table, and he was holding two glasses and a decanter of amber liquid. It was much, much later.</p><p>Will must have lost track of time looking through the files. </p><p>"Is everyone gone?"</p><p>Hannibal pushed himself off the doorframe.</p><p>“Yes, I sent the cavalry home.”</p><p>He pressed one of the glasses into Will’s hand and filled it halfway, and then tapped the base of the glass with one finger until Will raised it to his lips. Scotch.</p><p>“Is this the—”</p><p>"Yes, it's the <em>good one." </em>He poured one for himself and left it and the decanter on the dresser as he shed what remained of his evening wear. “I felt that we deserved it, after this evening.”</p><p>With another sip of scotch in him, Will took to clearing the bed of Marissa Schurr’s murder. Hannibal hated it when he brought victims home with him, even more so when he brought them into their bedroom. It was a psychology thing, something about work and sleep needing a hard divide — the same reason why he hadn’t let Abigail have a desk in her bedroom, and instead gave her free range of the downstairs study when she needed to work.</p><p>“How was the rest of the Shiva?” Will said, and dropped onto the bed still fully clothed. </p><p>Hannibal had changed into crimson pajama pants that were the softest cotton. He tugged a plain grey t-shirt over his torso.</p><p>“It was.”</p><p>“Cop-out,” Will snarked over the rim of his glass. “How was it <em> really?"</em></p><p>Hannibal picked up his own glass before joining Will in bed. He slipped underneath the comforter and tugged it up around his waist, restricted a little by Will sitting on top of it.</p><p>“I spoke to Alistair Schurr at great length.”</p><p>“How’s he coping?”</p><p>“He is coping about as well as you would expect for a man who has lost his first child in such circumstances.”</p><p>"Not well, then."</p><p>Hannibal traced his middle finger over the pressed crease of Will's slacks, and adopted the faraway look that so often punctuated his stories of the lost and desperate.</p><p>“It is never easy to lose a child, but I often think the fathers have it the worst."</p><p>Will hummed, <em>go on.</em></p><p>"They’re expected to fill their role as protector even after tragedy. Out of moral obligation to the family structure, they tend to hide their emotions, and it often destroys them. Studies have shown that fathers of murdered children often die within a few years of the murder, the majority die from heart failure. Though, really, they die of…”</p><p>Will’s mouth was dry, “...grief.” </p><p>Hannibal met his eyes. His hand stilled.</p><p>“It might not be an official cause of death, but grief is a bigger killer than we could ever expect. I'm afraid that Alistair Schurr could succumb to that fate.”</p><p>Will's heart ached with Schurr’s pain, and he knew that Hannibal felt it too. The thought of losing Abigail in such a way was too painful to fathom. He placed his hand over Hannibal's on his thigh, and Hannibal pulled them up to his chest so that his heartbeat resonated through Will’s skin and melded with his own pulse.</p><p>“I think they’re making a mistake opening the school so soon,” Will said, after a long moment.</p><p>“Will,” Hannibal was gentle, but admonishing, “we've been through this. If this is your killer, you said he’s unlikely to strike in the same place twice.”</p><p>Will chewed on the inside of his cheek, “I don’t think it is. The Ripper has no… physical or sexual attraction to his victims, he kills out of necessity and makes a spectacle because he likes it. This guy… this guy kills because he likes it and makes a spectacle out of necessity. It’s all backwards.”</p><p>Will felt Hannibal's thoughtful hum against the back of his hand.</p><p>“Have you told Jack?”</p><p>“I’ve tried,” Will said. “He’s so intent on catching the Ripper that he refuses to see anything else. Until then no kid in this town is safe, not even Abigail.”</p><p>Hannibal’s glass clinked against the nightstand as he placed it down, and Will felt the residual cold of it on his skin when he framed his face with a large palm.</p><p>“Look at me, Will.”</p><p>Wanting to lean into Hannibal’s touch, Will allowed himself to be manhandled until their noses were inches apart, and opened his eyes.</p><p>“Abigail is safe," Hannibal assured him. "She will always be safe with us.”</p><p>The sentiment was nice, but Will found it hard to believe. Children died every day, some more gruesomely than others. What was stopping Abigail from choking on her lunch? Or discovering a strange new allergy? Or running into a killer on her way home from school?</p><p>"How can you be sure?”</p><p>“Because I believe in you, and your ability to catch the man responsible for Marissa Schurr’s murder. I believe in our ability as parents to keep Abigail safe in the meantime.”</p><p>His fingertips grazed against the short hairs behind Will’s ear, and Will leant into the gentle swipe of his thumb over his cheekbone.</p><p>“You have an awful lot of faith in me, Doctor Lecter.”</p><p>“I do,” Hannibal said. Their joined hands kept him tethered directly to the beat of Hannibal’s heart, “because I love you.”</p><p>“Show me how much.”</p><p> </p><p>The girl was dead.</p><p>Her mouth stood agape in an unfinished call to the sky, fingers splayed against the leaves as if clutching onto what remained of her life.</p><p>She would accept it soon, they all did eventually.</p><p>Nobody walked the trail at night, so he had as much time with her as he wanted. As he needed. She had been unremarkable in life, but in death she was Persephone in the undergrowth, ready to rejoin her eternal lover for the autumn. He had made her this way. His perfect design.</p><p>There was a crunch in the leaves, and he looked up, for the culprit who would dare disturb his ritual. If it was a fox, he would scare it away. A man, and he would kill him.</p><p>The stag was jet black from the tips of its antlers to its hooves, but it’s eyes were blood red. It roared low, like the growl of a dog, and kicked a flurry of leaves out behind it. </p><p>He reached out, fingers splayed. The stag dipped its head.</p><p>The fur wasn't fur at all. It was cold and firm, supple like skin when he got both hands around it. He squeezed, and a young woman gasped beneath his crushing grip. The eyes that stared at him, wide and tear-brimmed, were a startling blue.</p><p>Abigail choked, and blood as black as the night sky spilled from her mouth, covering his hands to his wrists and rolling down his shirtsleeves to his elbows.</p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>A pair of hands grabbed at his arms, solid and real and warm. </p><p>Will opened his eyes, and in came the sights and smells of his own home, of Abigail’s bedroom. In came the mauve accent wall and the large bed and the floral comforter, the Macbook covered in stickers and shoes haphazardly kicked off by the door, the hand-built bookshelves lined with paperback novels and schoolbooks, the TV on the wall that bathed the entire room in pale blue light. </p><p>In front of him, really in front of him, was Abigail. Beautiful and real. Alive.</p><p>"Abigail," he breathed. </p><p>She scanned his face. “Are you okay? You seemed…”</p><p>“I’m okay,” he assured her, and tugged her gently against his chest. He kissed the crown of her head and inhaled the fruity scent of her shampoo to confirm to himself that she was real. “I’m sorry if I scared you, guppy. I’m so sorry.”</p><p>Outside, a train clattered by, the first train into Baltimore which passed every morning at 6. Beverly Katz snapped her fingers in front of his face.</p><p>“Earth to Graham,” she said, as he blinked against the sudden harsh light of the coroner’s lab. He glanced around, disoriented, and her concerned face swam into focus. “Where did you go?”</p><p>He took a deep breath in, let it out, and tried to get his bearings in the room. Beverly was on his immediate right; Price and Zeller were watching him with perfectly mirrored expressions on the other side of the autopsy table; Jack side-eyed him from his left, curious and distant. </p><p>
  <em> My name is Will Graham. I’m in Quantico, Virginia. The time is… </em>
</p><p>“Nowhere,” he said. “Sorry, I was just thinking about Abigail.”</p><p>Beverly’s expression softened.</p><p>“She’s fine, Will. It’s not her on the table.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Price cleared his throat, and Will was grateful for the distraction as all eyes were drawn away from him.</p><p>"The Ripper left a print on the victim’s collar, a partial. We’ve sent it for testing.”</p><p>“It’s not the Ripper.”</p><p>Will was getting sick of hearing himself say that.</p><p>“Will,” Jack warned. “It’s his MO.”</p><p>“No, it isn’t. Even if it was, do you think he’d leave a print <em> now? </em>He's careful, Jack. He's always been careful.”</p><p>Jack shrugged. “People make mistakes.”</p><p>“The Ripper doesn’t,” Beverly interjected, and Will could have kissed her. “I think Will’s right, Jack. I think this is somebody else.”</p><p>Jack looked between them.</p><p>“I know the Ripper,” Will said. Just a little more prodding. “It isn’t him. Trust me. We can’t afford to waste more time.”</p><p>He held his breath. Beverly glanced at him. Jack’s jaw shifted. </p><p>“Fine. What can you tell me about this guy?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Horn Concerto No. 4 in E Flat Major, K. 495: II. Romance. Andante cantabile</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>this is the chapter where it really becomes clear that i know nothing about wolf trap, virginia. the show didn't exactly give us much information and the internet isn't much more help, so i'm kind of just winging it... please forgive me if you actually know what it's like there!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Wolf Trap’s schools reopened exactly a week after Marissa Schurr’s murder, and Will was frantic.</p><p>He was out of bed first, because he hadn’t managed to sleep for more than an hour since the stag, and he found himself unusually tense when Hannibal pressed against his back in the shower. He washed Will’s curls with care, and whispered useless reassurances into his heat-flushed skin when they towelled off. </p><p>Hannibal’s psychiatric approach to life usually made it easy for him to subvert the anxieties that plagued his fellow men, but he seemed on edge, like a healthy person faced with a sudden illness. Breakfast lacked his usual tender preparation, and he nearly chipped Will's plate against the counter when he placed it down.</p><p>There was a plate waiting for Abigail when she came downstairs in a plaid skirt and a maroon cardigan. Will squinted at her bare legs.</p><p>“You won’t be cold?”</p><p>“I’ll be fine," she said, and hopped up onto a counter stool. While Hannibal usually liked to eat at the dining table with proper place settings, breakfast was too fleeting of an affair for more formal preparations. “Papa, tell him I’ll be fine.”</p><p>Hannibal pursed his lips; he didn’t usually appreciate being used as a pawn, but today was a unique circumstance.</p><p>“Will, she will be fine. The skirt is lovely, teacup. You will take a coat, though, won’t you?”</p><p>She scowled. Hannibal raised an eyebrow, and she huffed indignantly.</p><p>"Yes. I'll take a coat.”</p><p>“Good, thank you.”</p><p>When Abigail looked back down at her phone, Hannibal smiled smugly at Will. He just about resisted the urge to stick his tongue out in return.</p><p>He fed half of his bacon to Buster, his stomach churning too much to eat much of it himself, and if Hannibal noticed he didn’t mention it.</p><p>Instead, he asked Abigail, “How are you feeling about your first day back?”</p><p>“Fine,” she said with her mouth full. At the twitch of Hannibal’s eye, she swallowed before continuing. “It’s gonna be a bit weird at first, I guess, because they’ll have cops on campus and stuff, but… I don’t know. It’ll be fine.”</p><p>“Are they doing anything in Marissa’s memory?”</p><p>Hannibal absentmindedly handed a crust of French toast to Winston, who ran off to the dining room with it.</p><p>“Probably a bench or something,” Abigail shrugged. “I don’t really feel like talking about it right now.”</p><p>That was the polite phrase that Hannibal had taught her to use when she didn’t want to talk, to reduce the risk of arguments or miscommunication. He smiled proudly every time she used it, eyes flicking to Will’s in a <em> see? </em>gesture.</p><p>Usually, Will played along with the rivalry, but his chest was so constricted he felt like he was about to burst, so he just looked back down at the newspaper article he’d been pretending to read. </p><p>Winston came back into the kitchen in search of more scraps, followed closely by Allen and Henry, and Buster left Will’s side when he realised a congregation was happening. Hannibal looked at them critically.</p><p>“We need a cat.”</p><p> </p><p>Minivans and family sedans stretched as far as the eye could see at eight o'clock. The occasional news van even pulled in to get their morning scoop.</p><p>Despite the commotion, Hannibal was serene behind the wheel. He took the nearest turn onto the next block, effectively freeing them from the crush, and found an empty spot to park.</p><p>“You don’t have to walk me to the gate,” Abigail said.</p><p>“We’re walking you to the gate,” Will said, "all the other parents are.”</p><p>She sighed and got out of the car. The door slamming behind her rattled Will’s nerves, and he absentmindedly checked that his pills were in his pocket — they'd sat dormant at the back of the bathroom cabinet for months until this morning.</p><p>Hannibal reached over the centre console and patted his knee.</p><p>"All’s fair in family and war.”</p><p>“I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” Will assured him, and opened the door.</p><p>Abigail had eyes for nothing but her phone screen, so Will just tapped his fingers together until Hannibal locked the car and joined them. He laced his hand with Will’s and squeezed it once, and they fell into step a few paces behind Abigail.</p><p>There was a cop stationed in a cruiser at every street-facing side of the school building, and one took their names on a clipboard at the gate.</p><p>“This is wild,” Abigail muttered once they were let through to the front courtyard.</p><p>The parents had congregated there to see their children off, and Hannibal scanned the crowd for familiar faces.</p><p>"Wild," he confirmed.</p><p>Abigail turned. “Am I allowed to go now?”</p><p>“Hey—” Will started to warn at her tone, but Hannibal waved a hand and stepped in front of him easily. </p><p>He patted the front of Abigail’s jacket down flat and ensured that her backpack sat comfortably on her shoulders. </p><p>“No weapons, no sharp objects?” he quoted an email that they’d received from the school a few days ago.</p><p>Abigail smiled, “Just books.”</p><p>“Good.”</p><p>He kissed her gently on the top of the head, and she gave Will a quick hug before turning and heading into the school.</p><p>Will bowed his head a little, and Hannibal let him press his face into the shoulder of his expensive coat. He rubbed a gloved hand over his shoulder, unphased that Will's hands were balled in fists at his sides, and waited until Will's neck would support the weight of his head again.</p><p>He smoothed Will’s hair back, much like he’d done in the shower that morning.</p><p>"She’s going to be fine.”</p><p>Will nodded. “Can we go home?”</p><p>He gestured back toward the gates, “I thought you would never ask.”</p><p> </p><p>Most days, Will was at Quantico early, but with Abigail’s school opening and Hannibal insisting on packing him a full lunch, he didn’t get in until almost ten.</p><p>His first lecture was just getting out when he arrived, and some of the students waved to him as he passed by. He smiled companionably in return, silently wondering when he'd become the <em>nice </em>professor.</p><p>Miriam Lass looked dwarfed in his big office chair as she swiped on the screen of a large iPad. The accident that had severed her left arm above the elbow had rendered her unfit for the field, but she was turning out to be a promising educator.</p><p>He startled her when he placed his bag down on the desk and asked, “How was it?”</p><p>“Great,” she smiled, still riding high on the adrenaline of teaching, "you've got some really bright sparks in here.”</p><p>“You were my bright spark, when I taught you."</p><p>He unlatched his bag. He had a couple of hours until his next class, enough time to take another look over the Marissa Schurr file.</p><p>Her grin turned bashful. “I just... wanted to thank you for this opportunity. You’re such an inspiration; it was amazing to step into your shoes, even if it was only for an hour.”</p><p>The praise made him want to claw out of his skin. She would never know what it was to truly step into somebody’s shoes, to see the world through their eyes and experience their thoughts as her own. He was glad that she wouldn’t. He smiled tightly at her and she thanked him again before leaving through the same exit as the students.</p><p>Anxious to see the Schurr file, he tipped the contents of his bag out over the desk. Hannibal’s lunch tumbled out on top of the files, and the memory of Hannibal in the kitchen this morning came with it; still dressed up in his wool coat and scarf, offhandedly explaining the benefits of having three square meals as he stirred pasta sauce on the stove.</p><p>He moved the container to the corner, next to the photo of Hannibal and Abigail that stood on his desk. Discomfort scratched his chest as he glanced between the photograph and the crime scene photos spread out. Baby Abigail in Hannibal’s arms, lifted above his head to put the star on the Christmas tree. The girl who could have been Abigail, strung up like prey. He reached out and knocked the photo frame face-down.</p><p>The investigation felt strange, somehow. Wrong. Too quiet, even after a week. With the exception of the Ripper, most cases broke in the frantic hours and days following the murder. Some cases took longer, with complications and setbacks, but Will always found it easier to see the killer closer to the incident, their intentions still fresh and throbbing under the victim’s unfortunate flesh. He was losing his grasp on this killer, and if this case wasn’t solved within the month, his abilities would probably be rendered useless.</p><p>He couldn’t help but feel like that was the point. The silence was so pointed, so dead, it had to be orchestrated. Somebody was watching them struggle to make sense of it, enjoying their ignorant foolishness as they fumbled to find the smallest shreds of evidence. Will took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes; he could still see the crime scene behind them.</p><p>Marissa Schurr was seventeen years old, one of the oldest in her grade. She’d once been Abigail’s close friend, although they hadn’t spoken in years, and Will barely remembered her outside of the vague knowledge that play dates had happened. She’d been at most of Abigail’s childhood birthday parties, which he’d had to confirm by digging out old photo albums. Marissa wasn’t a girl who left an impression. She was smart but not much of a student, at the top of her class but never enough to get into the advanced classes. She dressed modestly and never had a boyfriend. Her friends had struggled to find anecdotes for her funeral.</p><p>“Everyone keeps talking about how much they liked her,” Abigail had said, with adolescent offhandedness, “but nobody really paid attention to her.”</p><p>Her body was found on September 23, 2018 a few yards away from a nature trail that ran through the local nature reserve. Seventy acres of woods that split Wolf Trap neatly in half, veined with cycle routes and hiking paths. The high school was on one side, and the middle school on the other, so dozens of teenagers and children alike crossed through that trail twice a day. Will himself was extremely familiar with it; he walked the dogs through there most mornings. </p><p>A man named Nicholas Boyle had discovered the body as he jogged by. The time of the discovery was documented at precisely 6:01AM, because he'd frozen the screen of his smart-watch when he paused to investigate. He reported that the girl’s body had been turned away from the path, so it wasn’t immediately obvious that she was dead. At first, he assumed that it was an early Halloween prank by neighbourhood kids.</p><p>He climbed into the underbrush, slipping down a small ditch, and intended to cut what he thought was a mannequin down before any of the middle school kids could see it. Boyle was 6’5, and he didn’t have to reach up much to grab Marissa’s ankles and spin her body around. Recognising her, Boyle had stumbled backwards, dragged himself back to the path on his hands and feet, then got up and ran to the local police station, where he showed up terrified and covered in mud.</p><p>In his haphazard discovery of the body, Boyle had successfully destroyed any tracks left by the killer. This made him prime suspect, although there wasn’t enough evidence to hold him after initial questioning. </p><p>Will wasn’t surprised when Jack Crawford entered his classroom without knocking. He was just glad that he didn’t have any students in, because Jack had a habit of cutting their class time short when he needed to talk to Will. Out of all the people he worked with, Jack was one of the few that he would consider a friend, but it didn’t make his stern disposition and bow-legged stride any less intimidating.</p><p>“We’ve got something."</p><p>He had a manila folder tucked under his arm, which he placed on top of the photos Will had been studying.</p><p>“A gift? You shouldn’t have,” Will deadpanned. He pushed his glasses onto his face and flicked the file open.</p><p>"You don’t sound very grateful. Meet Clark Ingram.”</p><p>A mug-shot paper clipped to the corner showed an average-looking man with sensibly cropped dark hair and an angled face that might have been handsome if it weren’t for the list of charges printed on the paper underneath.</p><p>"<em>Indecent A&amp;B on a minor; lewd and lascivious; indecent A&amp;B on a minor; aggravated sexual assault, dismissed; indecent A&amp;B, pending. </em>Wow, Jack, you really shouldn’t have.”</p><p>“He’s thirty-eight years old. Was a social worker before the, well"—Jack gestured vaguely at the contents of the file— “he lives in an apartment block within walking distance of the park where Schurr was found.”</p><p>Will didn’t bother explaining that everywhere in Wolf Trap was within walking distance of the park.</p><p>"Why didn’t we know about him?”</p><p>“He wasn’t in the sex offender registry; he moved to Wolf Trap a year ago and never registered.”</p><p>“How did you find him?”</p><p>“The pending A&amp;B. There’s been a dispute because the kid doesn’t want to testify.”</p><p>“Hm.”</p><p>Will studied the mugshot, trying to get a feel for the guy that wasn’t <em> he hurts children </em> and coming up empty. He wanted to feel something, some kind of instinct that would let him know that this guy was the one. He tried to force the pendulum to place Ingram at the scene. It didn’t swing. He had nothing.</p><p>“You think it’s worth giving him a shake?” Jack asked. </p><p>Will skimmed the rest of the file and found nothing of much substance.</p><p>“He doesn’t have any violence on his record.”</p><p>“I see two indecent A&amp;Bs and an aggravated assault accusation, that’s enough violence for me.”</p><p>Will sighed. “I don’t know, Jack. I’ve got a feeling.”</p><p>“We’re already following your <em> feeling </em> on this, Will. Maybe he tried to attack the kid and she fought back. Maybe he propositioned her and she laughed at him and he snapped.”</p><p>“That’s a lot of maybes,” Will said. </p><p>“We’ve already sent agents to pick him up,” Jack replied. As forward as ever. “Even if it isn’t him, I’d bet he’s got enough kiddie porn on his harddrive to put him away for a while.”</p><p>There was nothing Will could do to deter him, and he had a point. Even if Ingram hadn't killed Marissa, it wouldn’t hurt to get him off the streets for a while. With that settled, Jack leaned back against the side of the desk, eager to smooth the slight friction that had arisen between them. </p><p>“How’d it go at the school this morning?”</p><p>Will shrugged. He didn’t exactly want to disclose the details of his family’s anxieties at work.</p><p>"It was fine. You know Abigail, nothing bothers her.”</p><p>“And you and Hannibal?” </p><p>“Yeah, that’s a different story.” Will picked at the corner of his desk where the photo-laminate wood was pulling away from the base. “The whole town is shaken up about it, all the parents are scared to let their kids back.”</p><p>“Not for long, once we catch the guy.”</p><p>Will looked back at the photo of Clark Ingram, “Yeah.”</p><p> </p><p>“Are you sure you’re comfortable with this?” Beverly asked.</p><p>It took Will a moment to realise that she was talking to him. There were four people in Jack’s office, not including Jack himself. Price and Zeller were bickering over trace evidence on the other side of the conference table to Will, who was supposed to be taking notes but had ended up drawing circles over and over on his memo pad. Beverly stood at the cork board that looked like something straight out of a crime procedural, watching him with an arched brow.</p><p>Will fiddled with his pen, twisting it around in his hand, “What do you mean?”</p><p>“Are you happy working this case? It’s not the Ripper; you don’t need to help if you’re uncomfortable.”</p><p>“I’m not uncomfortable,” Will said. Price and Zeller’s bickering had dropped to silence, interest piqued in the conversation happening across them. “Why would I be uncomfortable?”</p><p>“Your daughter goes to the same school as the victim, it just seems a little close.”</p><p>“She has a point,” Price piped up, "your kid might be in danger. If she’d been unlucky enough to be walking through the park at the wrong time—”</p><p>He choked on his words when Zeller elbowed him in the side. “What? It’s true!” </p><p>“But you didn’t need to say it!”</p><p>They devolved back into quiet bickering, and Beverly rolled her eyes at them.</p><p>“You seemed a little shaken up yesterday, is all. I just wanted to make sure you’re handling it. If my kid was involved—”</p><p>“I’m handling it,” Will snapped. “Just… let me do my job.”</p><p>She hummed, well accustomed to his sharpness, and turned back to the board. Will tapped his pen against the page of his memo pad, eyes flicking between the page and the crime scene photos that were spread over the table. He’d looked at them so much that they were burned into his retinas when he closed his eyes. At night, he met Marissa Schurr in the underbrush.</p><p>Beverly was the one to break the silence again, “Why haven’t we interviewed any students?”</p><p>“Jack didn’t think it was necessary,” Will answered. “A student couldn’t have displayed her like that. It would have been much messier.”</p><p>The door opened, and Jack came back in, an evidence box under his arm which he dropped onto the table.</p><p>“What have we got?”</p><p>Will sighed, “Beverly thinks a kid did it.”</p><p>“No, I don’t,” she said. “You can’t get through town without going down that trail. Maybe one of them saw something.”</p><p>“It’s worth a shot,” Jack said. “We’ll organise student interviews for tomorrow. We’ve almost got him, I can feel it.”</p><p> </p><p>Four dogs greeted him when he got home, panting and jumping at him as he waded through them to shut the front door. All of them followed him towards the kitchen, where soft music played like siren song.</p><p>Warm oven light backlit two silhouettes swaying to the gentle melody of a piano track. Body heavy with the weight of the day, Will leaned against the doorframe to watch Hannibal guide Abigail around the room. Warmth spread through him unrelated to the heat coming from the stove when Hannibal spun her under his arm and dipped her, both of them laughing happily when the move was a success.</p><p>He cleared his throat. </p><p>“Will!” Hannibal said gleefully. He turned the music down a fraction. “How was your day?”</p><p>“I don’t want to talk about my day,” Will replied. He let Hannibal sweep him in around his waist and greet him with a kiss. “You two seem to be having fun.”</p><p>Hannibal rounded the island to pour Will a glass of wine and top up his own.</p><p>“I was teaching Abigail the art of the waltz. She will be an Astaire in no time.”</p><p>Abigail barked a laugh, and he grinned. It was so rare to see her this carefree nowadays. He ruffled her hair as Hannibal passed him his wine glass.</p><p>“How was your first day back?” Will asked.</p><p>“It was fine,” she shrugged. “I’m gonna go up for a bit, I think. Will you call me for dinner?”</p><p>“Of course,” Hannibal replied easily, and with his permission she disappeared upstairs.</p><p>Will watched her go until he heard her bedroom door close.</p><p>“Is she upset with me?”</p><p>Hannibal took a steady sip of his wine. “I think she is worried about broaching a subject, and it’s presenting in a way similar to rudeness.”</p><p>“She told you about the nightmare.”</p><p>“I knew that you hadn’t been sleeping well,” he said, in his diagnostic way. "She did tell me about the sleepwalking, however.”</p><p>Will dropped his head into his hands and groaned. He’d hoped, naively, that Hannibal wouldn’t find out about it.</p><p>“Nightmares are normal,” Hannibal explained, "the case is still open, it’s natural that the pressure would creep into your dreams.”</p><p>“I thought I killed her,” Will said, quietly. “I thought I’d killed Abigail. I — I saw myself doing it… <em> Felt </em>myself doing it. What if she knows I dreamt that?”</p><p>Silence. Will raised his head slowly, terrified of what he’d find in Hannibal’s expression, but his face was blank. He rounded the counter, and Will placed his glass down so that Hannibal could slot their bodies together. He framed Will’s face with his hands, both pushing his hair back and guiding him to look in his eyes, soft with fondness. </p><p>“You currently feel responsible for Marissa Schurr, and the pressure of having to bring justice to her is marrying itself with your responsibility over Abigail’s safety. Your subconscious is bringing these anxieties to light in a distasteful way.”</p><p>“It’s definitely distasteful." Will pushed his hands up over Hannibal's shoulders. “Do you think we’ll catch him?”</p><p>“I have great faith in you, Will.”</p><p>Hannibal’s hand smoothed over his face. He leaned into his touch like one of the dogs.</p><p>“Will you prove it?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Nocturne No. 9 in B Major, Op. 32 No. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Although many of the kids hadn't known Marissa, her death hung like smoke in the off-yellow paint and linoleum floors of the high school. Abigail hadn't said much about the state of the school after the murder, but it was clearly dire. One classroom was labelled <em> grief counselling, </em>and Will caught sight of a young girl inside, pressing a tissue to her face. The classroom that Principal McNamara led them to was labelled <em> FBI interviews</em>. </p><p>“Staff will bring the kids to you when they’re ready,” she explained. She was a stern, sensible woman, with greying hair secured behind her head in a large tortoiseshell clip.</p><p>Will and Beverly were scheduled for over two dozen interviews, but the highest priority witnesses came first: Marissa’s close friends and kids who lived on the other side of the park, who would have had to cross through to get to and from school. After the eighth kid had passed through with shrugs and <em> I don’t know </em>s, Will started to get the feeling that they were trawling an empty ocean.</p><p>“I think we’re being shut out,” Beverly said. Her notepad was pitifully empty besides the kids’ names and grades.</p><p>Will looked down at his own notepad. It was in a far worse state than hers.</p><p>"There’s definitely something going on.”</p><p>“I thought these kids were supposed to be her friends.”</p><p>Will tapped his pen against the empty page of his notepad and chewed the inside of his lip until it burned. The kids weren’t particularly competent liars, but all of them had attempted to claim that they didn’t know Marissa at all. Even the girls flagged as her best friends, who she sat with at lunch and in classes every day, had refused to acknowledge their friendship as fact. It was as if the kids had taken a pact of silence. Beverly looked at him, and he looked back, and they both knew they had been wrong. They’d barely entertained the idea that the killer could have been one of the kids. They hadn’t even considered the possibility when starting the interviews, but the truth had become as obvious as a neon road sign. These kids knew something.</p><p>A girl sloped into the classroom and slid into the chair opposite them. Her cheek protruded slightly when she poked her tongue into it and crossed her arms resolutely over her chest. </p><p>“Maisie Klein?” Beverly asked.</p><p>The girl nodded.</p><p>Beverly placed her badge on the table. Maisie glanced at it, and then away. “I’m Special Agent Beverly Katz with the FBI, this is my associate Will Graham. We just want to ask you a few questions about your friend, Marissa.”</p><p>“I know,” she said. Her eyes landed on Will. “You’re Abigail’s dad.”</p><p>Her tone was almost accusatory. Will shifted in his seat and cleared his throat.</p><p>"Yes, I am. Are you friends?”</p><p>“Shouldn’t you know who your kid’s friends are?” Maisie asked.</p><p>“Ah — yeah, probably. Sorry, Maisie, I guess you could say it’s been a rough day.”</p><p>“Why’s that?”</p><p>Beverly took over. “Nobody seems to want to talk to us. Would you have any idea why that is?”</p><p>Maisie shrugged, picked at her fingernail, “You’re cops.”</p><p>“Is that why?”</p><p>“Yeah.” Maisie’s eyebrow ticked. <em> Duh. </em></p><p>There was a pointed beat of silence where Beverly flipped to the next page in her notepad. “Were you friends with Marissa Schurr?”</p><p>“I knew her,” Maisie said, and for one suspended moment it seemed like they were going to get somewhere. “But not really.”</p><p>“You knew her but not really…” Beverly muttered to herself. “What did you think of her? Did you like her?”</p><p>“She was nice enough, I think. We weren’t close.”</p><p>Will leaned forward, elbows on the table, “We’ll stop asking stupid questions if you stop giving us stupid answers. Can you tell us anything? Anything at all?”</p><p>“I don’t know anything,” she said sharply. </p><p>“Whoever did this to Marissa is still out there,” Will said. Irritation swelled in his chest. “If you can help, then you have a responsibility. A <em> real </em> responsibility. What if this happens to another kid? Somebody you <em> do </em>know? How would you live with that on your conscience?”</p><p>The girl’s eyes went wide. </p><p>“Will,” Beverly said. Will realised absently that he’d stood from his seat, hands planted on the table. He took one deep, steadying breath and sat back down. </p><p>“Look, we just want to help,” Beverly’s eyes stayed on Will as she spoke. “But we can’t do that if you don’t help us. Will is a profiler, yes, but he’s a dad, too. I have teenage sisters, I know how devastating it would be if anything were to happen to them, or Abigail. Please, if you know <em> anything </em>.”</p><p>Maisie sighed. She eyed Will for a moment, and then Beverly, and cleared her throat. “Is anyone talking to Abigail?”</p><p>“You mean my daughter Abigail?”</p><p>“Yeah.”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>The girl’s jaw flexed, as if she was holding something back with her teeth. “Okay.”</p><p>“Why do you say that?”</p><p>“Will,” Beverly warned again. She was starting to become tired of being his babysitter.</p><p>The girl studied her hands in her lap. “I really don’t know anything.”</p><p>Will looked her in the eye, letting her know that he wasn’t fooled, and Beverly placed a small white card on the table. She pushed it towards the girl with one finger. “Contact this number or email address if you think of anything, okay? Anything at all.”</p><p>“Sure.” Maisie pocketed the card. “Can I go now?”</p><p>Beverly smiled, “Of course. Thanks, Maisie.”</p><p>“Yeah, thanks.”</p><p>“You have a brilliant mind,” Beverly said, once they were alone. “But your tact leaves something to be desired.”</p><p> </p><p>Her skin was desaturated in the moonlight.</p><p>His boots sank into the marsh as he followed her, a few steps behind yet adjacent to where she walked on the path. Her pace was even, confident; she had probably walked this route hundreds of times. This would be her last time, of course, but she didn’t know that yet.</p><p>She didn’t know it when he emerged from the undergrowth, or when he got a handful of her hair and yanked her backwards. Her phone clattered to the path, tinny music coming from her headphones the only sound besides the shuffling of their feet against gravel. His hand clasped expertly over her mouth served both to silence her and cut off her air. She was too weak to fight back, poor thing.</p><p>The sound that she made when he threw her to the ground was animalistic, a winded noise drawn from her gut. He got a hand around her delicate throat to crush the sound at its origin. Under the moonlight, her face seemed to change, until her pale skin was familiar. Black blood oozed from her mouth when she spoke in a voice he knew, “Dad?”</p><p>Will's chest heaved painfully when he woke, jolting upright. He groped around on the nightstand until he located his glasses and pushed them up his nose, the dark room coming into slow focus. Next to him, Hannibal was still somehow sleeping soundly, his deep breaths blew the strands of hair up away from his face in an even rhythm. Will followed the pattern until his heart rate returned to normal.</p><p>He took his phone from the nightstand, and turned the brightness as far down as it would go. It was still a little too bright for his eyes, but he didn’t think he was risking waking his husband up with it. A list of messages waited on his lockscreen.</p><p><b>Bev K. </b> <em> 1h ago </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Know it’s late, sorry. Someone sent this into the tip line. I wanted to tell you before Jack did. </em></p><p><b>Bev K. </b> <em> 1h ago </em> <em><br/></em> <em> [Link] </em></p><p><b>Bev K. </b> <em> 1h ago </em> <em><br/></em> <em> You’ll want to take a look at it. </em> </p><p>The link took him to an encrypted FBI site that made him input his badge number, which he struggled to remember in his post-nightmare haze. He got it eventually, and it opened a list of images which looked like screenshots from a group chat called <em> Friends of Marissa &lt;3 </em>. By the amount of messages, everyone in Marissa’s grade was in it.</p><p>The screenshots started at the creation of the group chat.</p><p><b>Harper Pott </b> <em> 25/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> hey everyone. wanted to make this gc as a little support group, in case anyone needs to talk to someone to abt marissa. we could maybe organise a memorial or something, let me know &lt;3 </em></p><p>The rest of that page was fairly innocuous, so Will swiped to the next photo.</p><p><b>Harry Brauner </b> <em> 26/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> just passed by the park. crime scene tape still up. no cops tho. </em></p><p>They went on like this for a few pages, towing the line between gossipy and confessional. He skipped through so many pages that he nearly missed the point of contention, zoning back in when he caught a familiar name on the screen.</p><p><b>Rebecca Carson </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> abigail stfu. if u don’t want to be here just leave. </em></p><p>The mention of Abigail caught him off guard. For a moment, he assumed that the venomous message couldn’t possibly be directed toward <em> his </em>Abigail, but he swiped to the previous page anyway.</p><p><b>Abigail Lecter-Graham </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> maybe you all haven’t heard, but marissa is dead. why are you all acting like her best friend now when you never were? can we be real? </em></p><p><b>Harper Pott </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> wtf abigail. </em></p><p><b>Danny Grey </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> WTF. </em></p><p><b>Rachel Simons </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> FFS Abigail. U always do this. Just kill yourself, seriously. </em></p><p>Will’s mouth filled with sand. </p><p>
  <em> Just kill yourself.</em>
</p><p>The words resonated in him as if they’d been directed at him, and he wondered whether Abigail had been as affected by them as he felt. If she was, why hadn’t she told them about it? Did she think that they wouldn’t care, or want to help? He was tempted to wake Hannibal up and ask if he knew; she always told him everything first. He didn't.</p><p>While he wanted to click away from the messages, do the logical thing and put his phone down and talk to Hannibal about it in the morning, some morbid curiosity kept him scrolling through the screenshots. They got increasingly more heated, but Abigail herself didn’t reappear until the final page.</p><p><b>Rachel Simons </b> <em> 28/09/2018 </em> <em><br/></em> <em> Everyone knows you did it, Abigail. You have a knife, I’ve seen it. </em></p><p><b>Abigail Lecter-Graham </b> <em> left the group. </em></p><p>Will couldn’t move. As far as he’d known, Rachel was a good friend of Abigail’s. She’d been to their house thousands of times, eaten thousands of meals with them and spent countless sleepovers in Abigail’s room. He stared at the message until the pixels swam in his vision, and then dropped the phone face-down onto the comforter.</p><p>
  <em> Everyone knows you did it. </em>
</p><p>Careful not to rouse Hannibal, he slipped out of bed and padded to their en-suite. The small light beside the mirror made his reflection appear sallow and gaunt. He scrubbed a hand over his face.</p><p>
  <em> Everyone knows you did it.</em>
</p><p>He checked the bed once more as he passed back through their bedroom, finding Hannibal sleeping soundly in the same position he’d left him in. The hall was lit by pale moonlight streaming through the skylights, casting macabre shadows across the walls.</p><p>He insulated the latch of her bedroom door with his palm to keep it silent. A late-night talk show was playing from the TV, illuminating Abigail’s sleeping form in the bed. Checking on her constantly, he searched silently through each drawer and shelf. A sick feeling played at his chest, but he pushed it back; this was for her own good.</p><p>The search didn’t take long. On the top shelf of her bookcase, pushed back amongst textbooks and trinkets, his hand collided with something hard and heavy. He grasped it and took it down. The box was a lovely, ornate thing that he remembered had once belonged to Hannibal’s sister. It was one of the final remaining elements of his childhood in Lithuania, handed down to Abigail as a birthday gift.</p><p>The clasp made a soft clicking sound as he opened it.</p><p>What was inside could have been a hunting knife, built to fold into itself delicately. The handle was iridescent metal and cold to the touch when he lifted it out of the box between his thumb and forefinger. Unfolded, it was about ten inches long. The blade was sinister and beautiful, curved into a gothic almost<em> S </em>shape that tapered like the lick of a flame. </p><p>
  <em> I take the knife with the beautiful blade. I cut Marissa Schurr’s throat. I clean the knife and hide it away. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Everyone knows you did it. </em>
</p><p>He dropped the knife like it had burnt him, and latched the box shut. He returned it to the shelf, and went downstairs to fix himself a stiff drink and consider his options.</p><p>Abigail slept soundly.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Piano Sonata No. 11 in A Major, K 331: III. Alla Turca - Allegretto.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>September 13th, 2019.</b> <b><br/></b> <b> <em>Interview with key witness, GRAHAM. W.</em></b></p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Would it be safe to say you were waiting for this moment, Mr Graham?  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No.</em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: I’ll rephrase — would it be safe to say you were dreading this moment? Fearing it. Maybe even expecting it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No, it wouldn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: When did you adopt your daughter? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: We adopted her in 2004. She was eighteen months old. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: And what was her full name before you adopted her? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Jack, please. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Answer the question. What was her name? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Her name was Abigail Hobbs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Who is Abigail’s real father? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I’m her real father. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Who is her biological father? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [The witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em>Jack Crawford: Who is her biological father? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: His name was Garret Hobbs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Any connection to the serial killer Garret Jacob Hobbs, the Minnesota Shrike? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Yes. Abigail’s biological father was Garret Jacob Hobbs. But he did not raise her, I raised her. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: But you didn’t raise her alone. </em>
</p><hr/><p>
  <strong>October 1st, 2018.</strong>
</p><p>The morning following the knife, Will called in sick to work. Miriam was more than happy to take over his lectures for the day, and while Jack seemed dubious about not having him around for the investigation, he didn’t argue when Will insisted.</p><p>While Hannibal dropped Abigail at school, he took the box from her room and set it on the kitchen island. He took slow sips of his coffee, stomach churning, and wondered if the knife would still be there when he opened it. He almost hoped that it wasn’t.</p><p>The dogs alerted him of Hannibal’s arrival, and he had a few moments to collect himself as Hannibal hung his coat and scarf up in the hallway closet. He wasn’t surprised to see Will where he’d left him, but his expression faltered when Will pressed the box into his hands.</p><p>“Mischa’s box?”</p><p>Will swallowed against his dry throat.</p><p>“I found it in Abigail’s room.”</p><p>“Well, naturally; I gifted it to her.”</p><p>Hannibal studied his face. He wasn’t happy that he’d been snooping through her things. </p><p>“Just open it.”</p><p>Will couldn’t bear to watch him, so he turned away and braced his hands on the counter, stared down at the swirling marble. He heard the latch click open, and the rush of Hannibal’s breath leaving him.</p><p>“Will, what is this?”</p><p>“I know I shouldn’t have been looking, but Beverly sent me screenshots that had been sent in on the tip line. Abigail…”</p><p>“What are you saying?” Hannibal’s voice was quiet, slow. </p><p>
  <em> Everyone knows you did it.</em>
</p><p>Finally, Will turned again. Hannibal stared down at the knife, blanched. </p><p>“They think she did it. The kids at the high school."</p><p>Hannibal’s eyes flicked to him. “Do <em> you </em>think so?”</p><p>“God, no, <em> Hannibal," </em>Will replied, knee-jerk. Hannibal placed the box down gently. “I just — if people know she has it, if <em> we </em>know she has it, and if people already think she’s capable of…”</p><p>His skin felt two inches too thick; he almost didn’t notice Hannibal’s arms slip around his shoulders and pull him in close. </p><p>“They know what she is capable of, and it is not murder.”</p><p>For the first time in hours, listening to the soft lilt of Hannibal’s accent against his ear, he felt calm.</p><p>"What if I — what if I had thought, for a moment, that she <em> was </em>capable of it? Am I a bad father?”</p><p>“You are a good father, Will, the best,” Hannibal assured him. “We will talk to Abigail about it when she gets home.”</p><p> </p><p>The hours until Abigail got home stretched like days, and by the time three-thirty rolled around Will’s bouncing knee was drilling a hole in the dining room floor. Hannibal, fresh from the office, pressed a hand to Will’s thigh as they listened to Abigail greet the dogs in a high-pitched voice and kick the front door shut behind her. Keys landing in a ceramic bowl. The rustling of a coat shed and shoes kicked off. </p><p>“Abigail?” Hannibal called. “Could you come here, please?”</p><p>There was a beat of silence before Abigail replied, “Yeah!”</p><p>Hannibal smiled at Will in a half-ditch attempt at reassurance, before Abigail appeared in the doorway. Her expression faltered when she noticed both of her parents sat at the table.</p><p>“What are you both doing home?”</p><p>Will cleared his throat, “There’s something we need to talk about.”</p><p>Abigail’s eyes flicked to the box on the table, and then to Hannibal.</p><p>“Papa…”</p><p>“He’s not helping you,” Will said, a little sharper than intended. “Sit down.”</p><p>She ground her teeth, and sat a few seats away from Hannibal. Sat at the table, it occurred to Will how young she still looked. </p><p>“Do you want to explain what this is?”</p><p>“A box?” she said, quietly.</p><p>“Don’t fool around.”</p><p>Hannibal’s hand tightened on his leg.</p><p>“Abigail, please be sensible.”</p><p>Abigail rolled her lips, and she reminded Will so vividly of Hannibal that it almost choked him. “You looked through my room?”</p><p>“I did,” Will said. </p><p>“Ever heard of privacy?” </p><p>“Abigail,” Hannibal warned gently. Somehow, he always managed to play good cop. "Your father was simply concerned for you, as am I.”</p><p>“I just need you to help me out here,” Will tried to replicate Hannibal’s softer tone, “the FBI are looking for this knife. This is serious.”</p><p>Abigail’s eyes widened, “For <em> this </em>knife?”</p><p>Hannibal gave Will a sharp look. “Not <em> this </em> knife, <em> a </em>knife.”</p><p>"Why do you have it?" Will asked.</p><p>Abigail shrugged, “I thought it was pretty, I don’t know.”</p><p>“Where did you get it?” </p><p>“Some Etsy shop,” she said. "Before you ask, I hid it because I knew you’d freak out about it.”</p><p>She slumped back in her chair in a parody of a moody teenager. It was a shield to block Will’s attempts to get through to her; she was too smart to leave him any evidence to read. He knocked his glasses onto the table and scrubbed both hands over his face.</p><p>“I need to ask you this for my own peace of mind,” he sighed, "is this the knife they’re looking for?”</p><p>“What? No! Dad, are you insane?”</p><p>“Do you know anything about what happened to Marissa Schurr?”</p><p>“Of course not"—she rubbed the cuffs of her cardigan over her eyes—“I can’t believe you just asked me that, holy shit.”</p><p>“Would you object to me sending the knife in for testing?”</p><p>“Do whatever you want. You won’t find anything.”</p><p>She glanced at him, startling blue eyes wide and vehement, and let him in. </p><p>
  <em> My name is Abigail Lecter-Graham. I am sixteen years old. My father thinks that I am a murderer. </em>
</p><p>“Abigail, go to your room,” Hannibal said. “I’ll call you down for dinner.”</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>Her chair scraped against the floor when she stood, and they listened to the muffled sound of her stomping up the stairs. Hannibal squeezed his knee.</p><p>“You did the right thing.”</p><p>“Did I?”</p><p> </p><p>That night, Will dozed on the couch with his head in Hannibal’s lap as he read aloud in accented French, free hand in Will’s thick hair. Will didn’t know enough French to make sense of most of it, but he enjoyed the feeling of Hannibal’s hand on his scalp like the house cat that Hannibal so desperately wanted. </p><p>To an outsider, it may have seemed like their relationship had slipped into tame domesticity and lost the fevered passion of its early years, but Will disagreed. He loved these gentle moments, silently enjoying each other’s company in the life that they’d created. In all of the years in Louisiana, New Orleans, Virginia — all of the years before he’d tumbled into Hannibal’s life — he’d never have seen himself ending up like this. Curled on the couch with a lover’s hand in his hair and a dog at his feet. Their child asleep upstairs.</p><p>He hardly registered when Hannibal switched back to English to question him.</p><p>“Do you want to talk about it?”</p><p>“We already did.”</p><p>“You seemed very affected earlier,” Hannibal observed. “I just want to make sure we are on the same page.”</p><p>From his position, Hannibal’s face was sideways.</p><p>"I think we are. Aren’t we?”</p><p>Hannibal pursed his lips. “Are you thinking of reporting Abigail?”</p><p>“God, no,” Will said. “There’s nothing to report; it’s not a crime to own a knife. It’s not a crime to be a stupid teenager.”</p><p>He was feeling a bit ridiculous about the entire situation. Abigail’s face when he’d asked her about the knife had just been confirmation of what he’d known: she couldn’t be responsible for Marissa Schurr. He'd felt her innocence like a shock of cold water.</p><p>“What will you do with the knife?”</p><p>Will shrugged. “Probably throw it away.”</p><p>“You’ll cover for her.”</p><p>Will eyed him. Disappointment was emanating off him in hot waves.</p><p>"You can’t cover for someone who hasn’t done anything wrong, Hannibal. I just — I don’t want anyone using it to make her look guilty when she isn’t.”</p><p>“Yes, I suppose.”</p><p>Hannibal returned to his gentle petting, but Will was far from relaxed.</p><p>“You don’t think she’s guilty, do you?” </p><p>“I think it’s very hard to imagine.” </p><p>“But you <em> can </em>imagine it?”</p><p>Hannibal placed his book down on the arm of the couch. He searched out Will’s hand, looking at where their fingers interlaced instead of at Will’s face.</p><p>“When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t have imagined that knife.”</p><p>“Me neither.”</p><p>Hannibal pressed a kiss to the back of Will’s hand, his light stubble scratched his skin.</p><p>“Are you coming to bed?”</p><p>“Yeah,” Will sighed, and pushed himself up. The world spun momentarily as he got used to being upright again, and he reached out for Hannibal. “Come on, old man, up you get.”</p><p>Hannibal shook his head. “You are very lucky you’re pretty.”</p><p> </p><p>FBI techs had done their best to locate Marissa's missing phone, but it had died days ago, and for all their expertise they came up empty. On a miserable and overcast morning, dozens of willing volunteers showed up in their rainy day best to search the park for it. </p><p>Hannibal recognized most of the volunteers who passed through the check-in tent; community activist types, willing to join in any effort that could later be posted on Facebook, flanked by their unenthusiastic children; teachers from the high school; Alana and her wife, Margot, who gave him a happy little wave as they collected their wristbands. They all united in one mismatched amalgam to listen to Jack scream instructions about how the search would proceed.</p><p>As the crowd meandered away towards their prescribed areas, he caught sight of a tired-looking man zigzagging through the crowd like a paper sailboat bobbing upstream. Checking around, it seemed that nobody else had noticed. He took a few steps forward and met the man in the middle of the path.</p><p>“Good morning, Doctor Schurr,” Hannibal said, pleasant.</p><p>Alistair Schurr’s small eyes squinted behind tinted aviators, an unnatural choice for an overcast morning. He smelt of grief and sleep deprivation — muted, musky scents — tinged with the sharp sting of cheap liquor.</p><p>"I’m surprised to see <em> you </em>here.”</p><p>Hannibal tucked his hands into his coat pockets.</p><p>“Where else would I be?”</p><p>“Anywhere else.”</p><p>“Why do you think that?”</p><p>“You know—" his tone became oddly philosophical; Hannibal hadn’t been aware that he was capable of philosophical thought — “I’ve had the weirdest feeling lately. Like I’m watching a play, and all the people in my life are just actors. They go on with their little lives unaware that anything is different, while I know the truth. I’m the only one who can see that everything has changed. You know what I mean, Doctor Lecter? They’re pretending.”</p><p>Hannibal nodded, indulging him, “I can only imagine how you must feel—”</p><p>“I think maybe you’re an actor too, Dr Lecter.”</p><p>“What makes you say that?”</p><p>Schurr took off his sunglasses, folded them carefully and tucked them into his pocket. He looked worse than he had at the funeral. The shadows under his eyes had only darkened, and his skin had taken on an aged dullness.</p><p>“I think you’re false. I think you think you have everybody fooled with your… performance of domesticity, but you don’t. I’m not fooled. Not anymore.”</p><p>His tired eyes bore into Hannibal’s, a challenge. </p><p>“I don’t think you should be here, Dr Schurr,” Hannibal said. “I don’t think it’s beneficial for you.”</p><p>Schurr shook his head. “You know what would be beneficial for me? Finding the man who — who took my baby girl away from me.”</p><p>He rocked closer, and Hannibal put his hands out to steady him.</p><p>“The FBI are doing all they can. My husband is working tirelessly.”</p><p>“Your husband?” Schurr scoffed. “He’s just as bad as you are. And if he isn’t, he’s blind, which I think might be worse.”</p><p>Hannibal caught him when he rocked again, bracketed his scrawny shoulders with firm, steady hands.</p><p>"What is he blind to?”</p><p><em>“You,”</em> Schurr spat. "You and your kid. You’ve been lying, Lecter. All along you’ve been lying!”</p><p>He reared himself backwards, and was caught in Jack Crawford’s secure grip before he could propel himself back towards Hannibal. </p><p>“Doctor Schurr,” Jack said, holding onto Schurr's wrists, "you're not supposed to be here.”</p><p>Schurr strained out of the FBI agent’s grip, but he didn’t try to go for Hannibal again. </p><p>“I was just leaving."</p><p>He lurched backwards unsteadily, and then turned and traipsed out of the park, following the same odd little zig-zag.</p><p>“Are you alright, Dr Lecter?” Jack asked.</p><p>“Quite, thank you. I think Dr Schurr might be another matter, however.”</p><p>He considered the FBI agent for a long moment. Jack was a typical authoritarian, brutish and stern. In his prime, he had probably been quite handsome, perhaps even charming. Years in his line of work had stiffened his spine and etched hard lines into the soft planes of his face. It was an evolution that he hoped to never see in his darling Will.</p><p>“Do you think he’ll ever be okay?” Jack asked, of Alistair Schurr.</p><p>“Time is a generous maiden,” Hannibal replied, "but she is also a vicious beast.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Requiem, K. 626: Lacrimosa</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><b>October 8th, 2018.</b> <b><br/></b> <em> Two weeks after the murder. </em></p><p>When four blank-faced agents walked into the auditorium halfway through his lecture, Will knew that something was wrong. It was clear in the tight lines of their bodies, the anticipatory sweat on their foreheads and ill-hidden eagerness to be involved in something important.</p><p>He recognised most of them as black and white background images, but one of them stood out in vibrant technicolor — Clarice Starling, one of the brightest and best to ever pass through his lecture hall.</p><p>She was the first to step forward. An ambush.</p><p>“Mr Graham, we need you to come with us.”</p><p>Will clicked the projector off and waved his hand. The stalls exploded with the rustling of bags and books. He spoke under the ambience.</p><p>“What’s this about?”</p><p>“Just come with us.”</p><p>They surrounded him like a testudo all the way to Kade Prurnell’s airy corner office.</p><p>Prurnell’s office was one of the largest in the building, far larger than any Quantico office he frequented. There were three people seated at the conference table; Prurnell herself, a stern faced woman with a no-nonsense updo and a severe disposition; Jack, appearing sheepish in the presence of his superior; and Price, who gave Will a little wave as he approached. They were backlit by the large picture windows that looked out onto the parking lot.</p><p>Prurnell gestured to the seat opposite the panel.</p><p>"Sit down, Mr Graham.”</p><p>Will gestured to the agents who had brought him in, lined at the door as if stood at the back of a theatre.</p><p>"Did you lose my number?”</p><p>“You know how it goes.”</p><p>“What is <em> it?</em> Because I feel like I’m under arrest.”</p><p>Jack piped up, “You’re not under arrest, Will.” </p><p>“Thank you, Special Agent Crawford,” Prurnell said, though it sounded like <em> stand down. </em>“Mr Graham, if you’d please take a seat.”</p><p>Will sat.</p><p>Prurnell looked to Price, on her left, who slid a manila folder across the desk with a guilty look.</p><p>“The labs came back with a positive match for the partial left on Marissa Schurr’s body… It’s Abigail’s.”</p><p>The lab report was concise and left no room for error. It identified twelve similarities between the print found at the scene and the left thumb print from Abigail’s print card, labelled so with clear block letters: <b>LECTER-GRAHAM, A.</b> Will stared at it until her name blurred into nothing.</p><p>
  <em> I grab Marissa Schurr by her hair. I use my dominant hand to cover her mouth, but I’m clumsy. I leave half a print on her collar. </em>
</p><p>“I’m sure there’s an explanation.”</p><p>“I’m sure there is,” Prurnell agreed.</p><p>Will couldn’t look at her. He stared at the report, as if the evidence would change before his eyes.</p><p>"They go to the same school, Abigail’s in her class. They — they know each other. It doesn’t mean—”</p><p>“We know, Will,” Jack said. </p><p>All three of them watched him, their pity and disappointment soaked through his skin and burned him from the inside out. He looked down at the well-polished glass tabletop.</p><p>“I’m putting you on paid leave,” Prurnell said. “It was a mistake to allow you on this case in the first place. The agents who brought you in will escort you out; if you must stop by your office for anything, let them know, but you may only take your personal belongings. No papers, no files. The computer stays there.”</p><p>“Have you arrested her?”</p><p>“I don’t have to disclose that information to you.”</p><p>The early tendrils of a headache snaked across his brow and behind his eyes. He closed them. “Just… tell me. Have you arrested my daughter?”</p><p>“No,” Prurnell said.</p><p>“Are you going to?”</p><p>“We don’t have much choice, given the circumstances. We have a warrant.”</p><p>“Jesus…” Will needed to be anywhere but here. He stood up, nearly tipping his chair, and stared at Prurnell’s light wood desk in the opposite corner. It was much nicer than most, adorned with ironic family photos. She had a girl about Abigail’s age. “Abigail’s— she’ll turn herself in. You don’t need to arrest her. You can’t—”</p><p>“I can do what I like," Prurnell said. </p><p>Will flicked his gaze to Jack. He knew how he looked; manic, terrified, turning to his boss for help, but he was quickly running out of options. Against the clinical backdrop of Prurnell’s office, all he could see was Abigail in handcuffs. His world in chains.</p><p>“Jack, I’m asking you as a friend. Please do not arrest her.”</p><p>“It’s not my call, Will,” Jack’s voice was strained, like this was hurting him. He had no clue.</p><p>“Because of a fingerprint? A <em> partial? </em>That’s all there is?”</p><p>“We’ve convicted on less,” Jack said.</p><p>It took Will a moment to absorb the implications of that. He stood there, just a moment, with a terrifying energy rushing to his right hand that could have either smashed the table or crushed Jack’s windpipe. The stag stood tall and proud in his peripheral, huffing and kicking out great plumes of dust with its hind legs. </p><p>Hannibal’s voice echoed around his skull. </p><p>
  <em> Breathe, Will. What is your next step? </em>
</p><p>“I have to see my family,” he said, and turned out of the office.</p><p>A strange, calm urgency settled over him as he drove out of Quantico. He called Hannibal from the car. His voicemail played out over the speaker system.</p><p>“Hannibal, call me back. It’s important.”</p><p>He called Abigail, too. No answer. He didn’t leave a voicemail for her; he didn’t know what he would say.</p><p>He tried Hannibal again, and it rang several times before the speaker crackled and Hannibal’s voice replaced it.</p><p>“I’m with a patient, is everything alright?”</p><p>“You need to come home. They found a print on Marissa’s body that they think is Abigail’s. They’ve got a warrant.”</p><p>“Will, where are you?” </p><p>Hannibal’s voice was level and urgent, a sense of emergency seeping through the vowels. He remembered the first time he had heard that tone, when six-year-old Abigail got lost in the mall. It was the closest Hannibal Lecter ever got to panicking. He brought his palm down against the steering wheel once, the slight sting of pain grounded him just enough. </p><p>“I’m driving home.”</p><p>“Concentrate on the road,” Hannibal said. “I’m already on my way out of the office, I will be home soon.”</p><p>The line went dead. Will tried Abigail’s number again.</p><p> </p><p>He got home too late: two FBI-grade SUVs and four Wolf Trap PD cruisers were already stationed outside. Their front door stood open, and Will wasn’t naive enough to think that Abigail had gotten home first. He pulled up on the other side of the street and didn’t bother closing the driver’s door before passing between the two SUVs onto his own front lawn.</p><p>Beverly emerged onto the front porch, which explained the open door; she knew where they kept the spare key. She spotted him crossing the lawn and rushed down the front steps to press both hands to his shoulders. </p><p>“Will, I have to ask you to wait out here. You know the drill.”</p><p>
  <em> My name is Will Graham. It’s 3PM. I am in Wolf Trap, Virginia. My daughter has been accused of murder. The FBI are currently searching my home for evidence. </em>
</p><p>He stepped back. “I know. You don’t have to — I know.”</p><p>“Abigail wasn’t at school,” Beverly said. “Do you know where she is?”</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>She searched his face, but not for evidence. With the technicalities out of the way, the professional edge dropped out of her voice, "Have you called Hannibal?”</p><p>“He’s on his way here,” Will said. He felt dizzy. “I need to — I’m gonna sit.”</p><p>He gestured to the curb a few feet away, and moved to sit before she could respond. The concrete was hard under him, not cold enough to be grounding, and he dropped his head into his hands. After ten minutes, she silently handed him a bottle of water and retreated back into the house.</p><p>Hannibal arrived as the search stretched into its second hour, and Will’s centre of gravity lurched towards him. He only felt balanced again once they had crashed into each other.</p><p>“It’s okay, Will,"—Hannibal cradled the back of his head—“I’m here.”</p><p>He walked Will back to the curb, and sat with him so that they were pressed together all up one side. Will winced at the sight of Hannibal’s suit on the concrete, but Hannibal shrugged off his concerns.</p><p>“Have you heard from Abigail?” Will asked. “She wasn’t at school.”</p><p>“I haven’t.”</p><p>Will closed his eyes. </p><p>He was inherently aware of the gawking stares of their neighbours across the street and otherwise, drawn by the promise of being a primary source of good gossip, and they were becoming increasingly difficult to ignore. Hannibal snaked an arm around his shoulders and rubbed at his upper arm. </p><p>Another hour passed before Beverly returned. She almost smiled when she saw Hannibal, but schooled her expression once she realised how inappropriate it would be.</p><p>“We’re just about wrapping up. You should be fine to go inside soon.”</p><p>“Did you find anything?” Will asked.</p><p>Her mouth drew into a funny little line before returning to normal. “We seized her laptop and cell phone, and a couple of items from her laundry basket for trace evidence. I can’t tell you anything else. I’m sorry, Will.”</p><p>“They won’t find anything,” Hannibal assured her. “Abigail is a good girl. She would never do something like this.”</p><p>Beverly nodded. “I know.”</p><p> </p><p>Their house was quiet without Abigail.</p><p>As always, Hannibal removed his coat and shoes in a careful routine at the door, but Will went straight through to the living room. He knocked the couch cushions back into shape where they had been overturned, and pushed the photos on the mantelpiece back into order. </p><p>All of the doors were standing open, as per search procedure, so he watched through the kitchen doorway as Hannibal carefully pulled the room back to rights. While his back was turned at the sink, Will ducked through the doors. He pushed the stools back under the kitchen island one by one, careful not to scrape the tile.</p><p>Hannibal placed a glass of water on the counter.</p><p>"Drink.”</p><p>He glanced at it, “I don’t…”</p><p>“You have had a hard day, and you take little care of yourself when Abigail is in need.” </p><p>Hannibal pushed it closer to him. Will was reminded of when Abigail had come down with scarlet fever as a kid, and he had neglected himself for nearly a week in favour of sitting at her bedside waiting for her fever to break. </p><p>He took the water. Hannibal waited patiently until the glass was empty, then took it and set it in the sink.</p><p>The search team had corralled all the dogs into the cramped laundry room, but they were tame when Will opened the door. They sniffed around him and Hannibal curiously, as if they had Abigail hidden somewhere, and then scarpered into the dark garden when Will pulled the patio door open. He watched them tumble over each other and sniff the grass, rested his head against the doorframe and waited for them each to find their way back.</p><p>Hannibal opened the crockery cupboard and frowned when he realised everything had been rearranged in the search.</p><p>Will couldn't stand there anymore; to be in the kitchen was to be inside Hannibal’s head. He couldn’t even handle being inside his own at the moment; it was rapidly filling with smoke. Going upstairs would mean passing Abigail’s bedroom, which would have been totally upturned, so he traipsed back into the living room instead, Winston on his heels.</p><p>The dog joined him on the couch, although he was really too big for it. Will pressed his face into his deep fur and tried to clear the heavy fog encasing him.</p><p>Water rushed past his ears, loud enough that he could have been submerged in it. He was, to a point. The lake lapped at the knees of his rubber waders when he carefully found his footing on the rocks. He cast his line, and watched the fly bounce through the steady water.</p><p>“You could have waited for me.”</p><p>It was said through a laugh, followed by the splash of footsteps as Abigail joined him at his side. A flannel shirt slipped off her shoulder, revealing thick black straps of her swimming costume. She used to swim competitively, and he tried and failed to recall why she’d stopped.</p><p>“I’ll always wait for you,” he said, "but it’ll be easier for me to help you if my line is already cast.”</p><p>“I don’t need help."</p><p>She cast her line in a perfect, arching lasso and looked to him for approval when her fly bobbed happily along a few feet away from his. </p><p>“Maybe you don’t,” he agreed.</p><p>Her smile softened, “Only sometimes.”</p><p>A hand smoothed over his face, and he opened his eyes to find Hannibal shaking him gently out of a sleep he hadn’t expected. Winston wasn’t beneath him anymore, but a pillow had been slipped under his head in his place. </p><p>Hannibal had changed into a dark robe, tied over a striped pajama shirt, and his hair curled wet at the nape of his neck. </p><p>“What time is it?” Will asked.</p><p>He was plagued with the nauseous heaviness of a deep sleep, and his head throbbed at the sound of his own voice.</p><p>“About midnight. Agent Crawford just called; they found Abigail.”</p><p>A soft blanket pooled at Will's hips when he sat up, “Is she okay? Where is she?”</p><p>Hannibal pressed his shoulders down, preventing him from standing.</p><p>“She is fine, Will. They found her in the park near the middle school. She'll be kept at the FBI lockup overnight, but Jack assured me we can see her in the morning.”</p><p>Knowing that Abigail had been found relieved some of the tension held in his body, and without it he wilted, boneless. Hannibal dropped to the couch to take all of his weight, and Will curled into him. He smelt like fabric softener and sandalwood soap.</p><p>He tucked his chin over Will's head and cupped a hand at his nape. "We should go upstairs. You will be more comfortable there.”</p><p>Will got a fistful of his shirt. The collar crumpled under his grip.</p><p>A soft chuckle rumbled through Hannibal’s chest. “Whatever you need.”</p><p> </p><p>“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”</p><p>Hannibal considered him over the top of his newspaper, “Is everything alright?”</p><p>Will turned his laptop around. Early the morning following Abigail’s arrest, <em> Tattlecrime </em> ran a headline at the top of its website: <b><em>FBI Agent’s Teen Daughter Charged in Brutal Wolf Trap Killing! </em> </b> along with an image of the crime scene, snapped while the FBI were still scouring for evidence. Marissa Schurr’s body had been mercifully blurred, but it was clear where she was still hanging. The article itself was the epitome of Freddie Lounds’ sensationalism, if the first line was anything to go by:</p><p>
  <b> <em>He had it coming? FBI’s pet psychopath benched amid allegations of cover-up as his own daughter is unmasked in horrific Wolf Trap homicide.</em></b>
</p><p>No newspapers had run Abigail’s arrest yet for fear of an FBI cease and desist, so the site’s hits — displayed at the top of the page — climbed with every passing moment. </p><p>“You have to admire Miss Lounds’ commitment,” Hannibal said, although he seemed to have a bad taste in his mouth, "and her bravery.”</p><p>“She’s brave, alright."</p><p>Will rubbed at his eyes, hoping vainly that it would ease the migraine that had taken root behind them last night and kept up it’s residence. Sleeping it off wasn’t an option, as his couch nap had only made it worse, and he was sure whatever sleep he got would only be plagued by unsavory dreams.</p><p>The doorbell chimed through the house, and Hannibal gently touched the side of Will’s head on his way to answer it. Voices floated up from the hall a moment later, and Will stood just in time to greet Alana and Margot when Hannibal brought them through to the kitchen.</p><p>Alana knew better than to try to comfort him, but her hands seemed to itch to reach for him, mouth downturned in a pitiful frown.</p><p>"I’m so sorry, Will.”</p><p>He stared at the space between her eyes until he felt cross-eyed, and then looked back at Hannibal’s familiar, encouraging expression.</p><p>"It’s okay, Alana. We’re — we’re doing alright.”</p><p>Hannibal nodded his agreement. “We appreciate your company. Will, Margot has brought Abigail one of her suits.”</p><p>Margot lifted the black garment bag hanging over her forearm.</p><p>“I thought she might need something for the arraignment. I know that we’re a similar size because she tried one on the last time she stayed over"—she looked sheepish—“although now I’m afraid that I’ve overstepped.”</p><p>“Not at all, Abigail will appreciate your kindness very much," Hannibal said. He took the garment bag from her easily, and disappeared into the laundry room.</p><p>Alana watched Will carefully, as if he was glass threatening to shatter under rising heat.</p><p>“Will you see her before the hearing?” </p><p>“We get ten minutes before Chilton briefs her."</p><p>Her eye twitched. “You’ve hired <em> Chilton?"</em></p><p>“Frederick Chilton is one of the best lawyers in the state"—Hannibal’s voice floated from the laundry room, followed by the man himself—"I have faith in his ability to represent Abigail.”</p><p>“He can be a little... pompous.”</p><p>“And I have a flair for theatrics.”</p><p>She couldn’t argue with that.</p><p> </p><p>With Alana and Margot fed and seen back to their car, Will and Hannibal got ready in solemn silence. When his own hands failed, Hannibal pushed them away and tied Will’s tie into a neat double windsor. Inches away from Will’s own, his face was blank. True neutral. He made no attempts at reassurance besides gently taking Will’s hand over the Bentley’s center console. </p><p>Abigail was held at the FBI lockup an hour away, where the receptionist looked them over with an expression between pity and disgust. Will knew they would have to get used to that look. From now on, regardless of the outcome of Abigail’s trial, they would be shrouded with constant questions about their integrity. It was unlikely Will would ever work in law enforcement again.</p><p>The receptionist’s expression dropped when Jack Crawford walked into the lobby to greet them.</p><p>“Will, Doctor Lecter. How are you holding up?”</p><p>“How’s Abigail?” Will asked.</p><p>Hannibal glanced at him.</p><p>“I’ll take you through to her,” Jack said.</p><p>He had walked through these halls so many times for interviews and interrogations, but it felt as if the floor was tilting beneath him. Jack led them through to a lockup cell on the first floor, and Will instantly crossed to the two-way glass. Abigail was sitting against the opposite wall with her knees pulled up to her chest, body curled forward so that her dark hair fell almost to her ankles. She looked so small and young, with scrapes on her knees that reminded him of minor kindergarten injuries.</p><p>She lifted her head when the guard opened the door, and once she noticed Will, she threw her arms around his shoulders.</p><p>"Dad, I’m so sorry."</p><p>He pulled back just enough to get hold of her face and look her over. She was obviously shaken. Her eyes were watery and red-rimmed with lack of sleep, and she was practically using Will as a crutch. There was a smudge of mud on her cheek, presumably from when she had been hiding. He wiped it away with his sleeve as best he could. </p><p>“You have nothing to be sorry for," he assured her."</p><p>When she hugged Hannibal, he gave her a similar check over.</p><p>"Are you alright?" he asked.</p><p>She nodded tightly, and Hannibal gave her a disapproving look.</p><p>“I don’t think that’s the truth.”</p><p>“They think <em> I </em>killed Marissa. I—” her voice cracked, and then grew quiet—“I can’t believe it.”</p><p>“Hey, guppy, come on." Will tugged her close again, and tucked his chin over her head as she started to cry. “It’s a misunderstanding. We’ll work it out.”</p><p>Hannibal gave him a warning look over her head, but an imperceptible tilt of Will’s head made his objective facade crumble. He rubbed a hand over Abigail’s back.</p><p>"We've pushed your arraignment forward, so you won’t have to spend another night here. They will read your charges and set the bail, and we’ll bring you home.”</p><p>“Really?” Abigail looked up with wide eyes. “What if we can’t afford it?”</p><p>“We will afford it,” Hannibal assured her. “I have my inheritance, and our wages.”</p><p>“But what about—”</p><p>“Abigail,” Will interrupted, "we'll put up bail, whatever it is. You’re not spending another night in here.”</p><p>“You’ll be home in time for dinner. We can have whatever you like,” Hannibal said.</p><p>Abigail looked at him hopefully, “McDonald’s?”</p><p>“Not a chance.”</p><p> </p><p>Frederick Chilton was a curious man who carried the essence of somebody trying to seem mysterious. When he looked at someone, it was through narrowed eyes, as if he was sizing them up. He fixed Will with this look when he shook his hand. </p><p>“Mr Graham, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”</p><p>Will nodded. “I wish I could say the same.”</p><p>Chilton hummed. His narrowed gaze turned on Hannibal. “And the husband.”</p><p>“Hannibal Lecter.” Hannibal shook his hand.</p><p>“Ah, Doctor Lecter, of course.”</p><p>Chilton apparently operated under the assumption that pretending to forget a client’s name was a good way to impress them. Will snuck a glance at Hannibal, and was pleased to see him watching the lawyer with vague distaste. </p><p>“Alright,” Chilton said, "from this moment on, every expression, every move, every flicker of emotion will be interpreted against you, so give them nothing. These people are not on your side. In their eyes, Abigail is guilty. You all are. They will use anything to confirm what they already know.”</p><p>Hannibal took Will's hand, "We are potted plants."</p><p>Chilton sent them off to the courthouse with a pat on Will’s shoulder, and two Fairfax County PD officers led them the rest of the way. They kept their feet moving through the crowd of reporters in front of the courthouse, Will clutched Hannibal’s hand like an anchor. It was easy for Hannibal to keep a measured expression — he got paid to be objective — but Will found himself grinding his teeth until it hurt trying to keep his face blank as reporters yelled questions in his ears from all sides. </p><p>
  <em> Did you know that your daughter was a killer? Anything to say to the victim’s family? How about the people who trusted you? Will she testify? Mr Graham, how does it feel to be on the other side? </em>
</p><p>Pushing through the revolving glass doors felt like bursting out of the ocean onto the quiet calm of the beach; reporters were barred from the lobby. A security guard waved a metal detector wand over them, and they were led to the first-session court room.</p><p>A TV camera was trained on them from an empty box in the front corner, and Will struggled to keep his mask from slipping. He focussed on the heat of Hannibal’s body up his right side and silently studied the walls, brass and oak, and then his own hands and all of their calluses and scrapes. The stark white scar just above his left wrist bone from a misguided lure. The puckered indentation of teeth between his forefinger and thumb from a dog that didn’t like the car. Fisherman’s hands, workman’s hands, that now seemed strange at the ends of his sleeves. If he shifted a little, he could bridge the gap and press the side of his pinky to Hannibal’s. Hannibal’s hands were pale and smooth, made to be held and smeared in graphite.</p><p>Judge Davies swept in just as he’d started to count the tiles on the ceiling. The court rose, and then sat, and the clerk called out the case number. Abigail was ushered into the courtroom, in Margot’s suit, and guided to stand in front of the empty jury box. She scanned the crowd, caught eyes with Hannibal and Will, and dropped her gaze to the floor.</p><p>The click of a walking cane announced Chilton’s arrival to the court. He passed through the swinging bar, placed his briefcase on the defence table and stood beside Abigail. He placed a hand on her shoulder — not for her benefit, but to make a point: <em> This girl is no monster, I am not afraid to touch her. </em>And, of course: <em> I am not a hired gun doing this for my professional benefit. I believe in this girl, I am her friend. </em></p><p>“Commonwealth,” Judge Davies said, once they were seated at the defence table. “I will hear your case.”</p><p>Leonard Brauner stood up at the prosecutor’s table. He ran his hand down the length of his tie and then tugged at both of his cuffs.</p><p>“Your Honor...”</p><p>As Brauner recounted the facts of the case, Will stared at the back of Abigail’s head. She’d combed her hair into a low side braid, and her fingertips brushed at the end of it obsessively. Tabloids would probably claim that she did this out of vanity, perhaps that she was enjoying her moment in the spotlight. The truth was that she had always been an anxious kid, and was so terrified that she didn’t know where to put her hands.</p><p>When he reached his bail argument, Brauner’s tone grew somber, “Your Honor, we all know the defendant’s parents, who are in the courtroom today. Many of us open our hearts and minds to Doctor Lecter regularly, whether professionally or as friends. Will Graham is a prolific agent at the FBI, and a minor celebrity within psychological circles. Some may go as far as to say he has a predisposition for the heinous—”</p><p>Chilton stood. “Objection.”</p><p>A click of Judge Davies’ gavel.</p><p>“Sustained. Mr Chilton?”</p><p>“Your Honor,” Chilton said. “I presume you’re aware that <em> Will Graham </em> is not accused of anything.”</p><p>Judge Davies cast a look to the prosecutor’s table.</p><p>“Mr Brauner, do you understand?”</p><p>Brauner’s nostrils flared. “Yes, Your Honor.”</p><p>“Thank you, Your Honor.” Chilton sat down, and leaned over to mutter something to Abigail. Will watched his lips move, and Abigail’s imperceptible nod in response.</p><p>Despite Brauner’s best attempts at half a million, the bail was set at the expected ten grand, and Abigail was released to them. All Will wanted to do was hold her and not let her out of his sight, but they had a long journey back through the minefield of reporters who had only become more restless and aggressive while they'd been locked out from the action.</p><p>They joined hands and pushed through, Abigail sandwiched between them. The two of them couldn’t protect her from all sides, and a particularly aggressive reporter managed to get a hand on her shoulder and push, knocking both her and Will into the reporters on the other side. Abigail gave no response. She gripped Will’s hand tighter.</p><p>They drove home in near silence besides Will’s fingers tapping against the dashboard. Neither of them mentioned the nervous tic. In the wing mirror, he could see Abigail in the backseat. She looked particularly wrung out, although she had inherited Hannibal’s stubbornness and refused to let it show. Her face was perfectly blank as she watched the world pass by, as if there were still reporters recording her every move.</p><p>When Hannibal turned onto their street and approached their house, she dropped her facade and clapped both hands to her mouth. Will tiredly followed her gaze.</p><p>Graffiti slanted across the front of the house. Big, black letters spray painted onto shingle and stone.</p><p>
  <b>MURDERERS.</b>
</p><p>
  <b>WE KNOW YOU DID IT.</b>
</p><p>No particular care had been paid to the size or legibility of the letters, just enough that the meaning was clear. Will rolled down the window and looked up and down the street. The houses were large and far enough apart that their neighbours seemed miles away, continuing their lives happily outside of the contaminated air that now surrounded their house. They could happily share the gossip, but the yards between each house stretched like miles, the thick greenery providing reasonable doubt. They could talk about them as if they lived in the next town over.</p><p>Hannibal got out of the car and went into the house. In the reverberating slam of the car door, Will and Abigail sat in stunned silence.</p><p>“They’re trying to scare you,” Will said.</p><p>Abigail stared at the house across the street. “I know.”</p><p>“It’s just — it’s one person. Not everyone thinks the same. You have people on your side.”</p><p>“I bet the dogs were scared.”</p><p>Will twisted in his seat to look at her. The angle was awkward, but he got a better look at her face. It was an almost theatrical display of strength.</p><p>"You don’t have to be strong about this. Not with me. You can tell me the truth.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>“It’s okay to feel… hurt.”</p><p>She frowned a little and shook her head. <em> They can’t hurt me.</em></p><p>“It’s not like nobody’s ever said anything bad about me before. The difference is that most of them say it to my face, not paint it on my house.”</p><p>Her mouth turned up into a sad little smile. Resignation.</p><p>“Who?”</p><p>The group chat screenshots came back to him; he had a pretty good idea of the answer.</p><p>“Kids at school. They find anyone who’s different and beat them into submission.”</p><p>He winced at her wording. “You’re not different.”</p><p>“Yeah, right," she scoffed. "I’m the only kid in school with two dads. My birth parents died in a murder-suicide that made national headlines. I regularly get pulled out of class by FBI agents.”</p><p>“Different isn’t synonymous with bad.”</p><p>Will untwisted himself and leaned back against the headrest. Hannibal emerged from the house with his sleeves rolled up and a bucket swinging a little in his grip. He placed it on the front lawn next to the final ‘<b>T</b>’. </p><p>“It is when you’re sixteen,” she muttered.</p><p>Hannibal dipped a large sponge into the bucket, and it came out dripping. His shoulders flexed beneath his shirt as he scrubbed at the black paint.</p><p>“Come on.” Will opened the car door and swung one foot out onto the sidewalk. “Let’s help.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Slightly longer chapter for this one! Here's morning Hannibal as a new year gift :)<br/></p><p>Bonus sleepy couch Will<br/></p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Piano Concerto No. 21 In C Major, K. 467: Andante</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter took FOREVER, sorry that it's been so long! Enjoy &lt;3</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Will stared at a thick, leather-bound copy of Shakespeare’s complete works. An unusual choice for a lawyer’s office, even more so when it seemed to be exclusively for show. It had never been touched, let alone opened or read.</p><p>Chilton sat behind his desk like a czar, hand gently wrapped around the delicate head of his walking cane. As he expended some attempt at an inspirational speech, his index finger dipped rhythmically between the eyes of the golden bird. </p><p>“I very much believe that we have everything we need to win"— he leaned forward a little—"Abigail, between you and I… the FBI are scrambling for evidence to indict you. They don't have anything concrete.”</p><p>Abigail looked at Will, “They are?”</p><p>Will glanced at her tentatively hopeful expression, and then searched for Shakespeare again.</p><p>“I don’t know.”</p><p>Hannibal cleared his throat. It was the first sound he had made in nearly an hour, and Chilton’s eyebrows arched upwards. </p><p>“Do you have something to add, Doctor Lecter?”</p><p>The chair creaked beneath Hannibal when he shifted his weight. Not awkward, just settling in. Establishing their level playing field. </p><p>“What if they claim that Abigail inherited something?”</p><p>Chilton crossed his legs, one over the other at the knee. “Like what?”</p><p>“Violence.”</p><p>Will stared. They had never lied to Abigail about her past, as unsavory as it had been. When she got old enough to ask questions, Hannibal had made him rehearse his answers in the most concise and understandable way for her young mind. Now, he spoke clinically. As if he was diagnosing a patient, or discussing a case over dinner. Chilton tapped his fingers against his mouth.</p><p>“As far as I’m aware, there is no such thing as a hereditary tendency to violence.”</p><p>Hannibal nodded. “Research may not have proven its existence, but it hasn’t ruled it out, either.”</p><p>Abigail’s face screwed up. “You think I have a <em> murder gene?"</em></p><p>“I don’t.” Hannibal’s face was passive, voice level. “I'm simply covering our bases.”</p><p>She scraped at the knuckles of her left hand with the thumbnail of her right until the skin turned pink and angry.</p><p>“Why would you even bring it up if you don’t think I have it? If it’s so rare?”</p><p>“As I said, I was simply covering...”</p><p>“If you weren’t concerned about it, you wouldn’t have researched it.”</p><p>“I researched many things when studying psychiatry.”</p><p>“And a <em> rare murder gene </em> was one of them?”</p><p>Hannibal’s expression soured, the briefest curl of his top lip, and Abigail quirked one eyebrow. They were far too similar in many ways. Their arguments were rare, but when they happened they either escalated and sizzled out just as immediately, or stretched into cold silence for a number of days. Will pinched the bridge of his nose and prayed for the former. It would be a lot easier if they could fight this out in Chilton’s office and not take animosity home with them.</p><p>“Abigail, you are being disrespectful,” Hannibal warned.</p><p>She twisted towards him in her seat.</p><p><em>"I’m </em>being disrespectful? Respect goes both ways, you taught me that!”</p><p>“I did"—Hannibal folded his hands carefully in his lap—"and I am not prepared to be disrespectful towards you, so please fix your attitude accordingly.”</p><p>Chilton straightened up. Will wanted to warn him against interrupting, but he was too late, he’d already started talking, “If I may… Any evidence of a genetic predisposition to violence would never be admissible in court. No self-respecting lawyer would claim it as a legitimate prosecution strategy.”</p><p>Abigail continued as if he hadn't spoken at all. Will shot him a hopefully apologetic glance.</p><p>“Dad’s father was a mechanic who fished and fixed boat motors, and Dad likes to fish and fix things. Why would I be any different?”</p><p>Hannibal’s fingers moved against a loose thread on his knee. “Because Garret Jacob Hobbs is not your father. We are, and we raised you to be kind and compassionate and empathetic.”</p><p>“But what if it’s what I <em> am?"</em></p><p>“I can assure you it is not.”</p><p>“Then why bring it up?”</p><p>Abigail leaned back and crossed her arms, closing off the subject. Hannibal let it drop too, but the line of his shoulders was sharp. A porcupine, bristling when challenged. Abigail was not a natural predator, but she knew exactly how to elicit a prey response.</p><p> </p><p><b> <em>September 13, 2019.</em> </b> <b> <em><br/></em> </b> <b> <em>Further transcript of interview with key witness Graham, W., in relation to the homicide of Marissa Schurr.</em> </b></p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Where were you on the morning of October 12, 2018? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I walked my dogs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: And where did you take them? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Our usual route, through the park.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: But it wasn’t your usual route, was it? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [Witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Where did you end up? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I went to Clark Ingram’s apartment. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October 12, 2018.</b>
</p><p>It had been a while since Will had walked the dogs through the park.</p><p>He used to enjoy the long stretches of solace that he’d find in the early morning sun. Nothing but him, the snuffles of curious dogs at his feet and the early-morning joggers. If Abigail was awake, she’d sometimes join him, laughing joyfully with dark hair flowing behind her as the dogs ran past her ankles. </p><p>She didn’t join him today; the park was still tinged vignette with the crime, and there would be no telling how she could react if she was faced with the scene after recent events. </p><p>It was still a little dark out. Hannibal had been hunched over his desk in the study when Will had passed to the front door. The iPad screen reflecting blue light on his face undoubtedly displayed articles on Abigail’s case. Marissa Schurr. The murder gene. Sentencing for minors.</p><p>The dogs’ leads rattled in Will’s hands when he let them loose. They ran ahead of him, crossing and tumbling over each other on the winding paths that led through the park. They were elated to be walking again; he felt cruel confining them to the yard. He just barely kept up with them, hopping over wet spots and dodging through squelching underbrush that had spilled onto the path. His shoes were damp and covered in leaves by the time he emerged into a parking lot.</p><p>The building was a solid block of grey concrete, four stories high, with outside-facing corridors that made it feel like a motel. A twinge of recognition settled itself at the back of his skull, twisting there until he checked his phone. He swiped through his texts with Jack until he found the grainy photo of Clark Ingram’s apartment building, taken on the day he was taken in for questioning and released.</p><p>He held the phone up, squinted until the light matched up. They were the same. Undoubtedly so. There weren't many places in Wolf Trap that looked like this.</p><p>He had no way of knowing which apartment was Ingram’s, but his memory of the file served him well enough to recall his vehicle registration. Even without that, he could only have assumed that the one with the peeling bumper sticker reading: ‘<b>You can’t scare me, I’m a social worker!</b>’ belonged to him. </p><p>The car itself was a rusting beige Ford Probe that wouldn’t have looked out of place on the back of a tow truck. Will grimaced. Short of flying a flag from the antenna, the car could not have more accurately screamed <em> child molester </em>. </p><p>There were some spare dog waste bags in his coat pocket, and he slipped one over his hand to test the doors. Both of them were locked.</p><p>He cupped both hands over the window and peered in through the driver’s side. The interior was better maintained than the exterior, although the driver’s seat was peeling a little at the edges. There would be leather fragments on his clothes. At the crime scene. They hadn't known to look for it, so they wouldn't have found it. Perhaps Beverly noticed some.</p><p>The buzzers at the door were labelled, and it took less than thirty seconds of searching to find the one neatly labelled <b>Ingram, C. </b>A kind-faced woman coming out of the building politely held the door for him, and gave a silent questioning look towards the pile of leashes in his hand but otherwise didn’t ask. He declined with a thankful smile; he couldn't walk into the building without some sort of plan. </p><p>Jack would be uncomfortable with him snooping around. He pushed on that thought a little, and found that he didn’t care. Jack had, after all, effectively abandoned them once he felt that he had enough evidence to indict Abigail. He’d dropped Ingram completely, which would be a mistake once Abigail was proven innocent. The public would want to know; if Abigail didn’t do it, who did? They needed somebody to blame, and Abigail’s name would never be clear until they had someone.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: What did you want from Clark Ingram? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I didn’t want anything from him. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: So what were you doing at his apartment? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I was following the evidence, Jack. Like you taught me. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: And what was your logic? Where did you think this evidence would take you? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: My logic was that Ingram did it, because Abigail didn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: But Ingram didn’t do it, did he? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [Witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Who did it, Will? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>October 15, 2018.</b>
</p><p>A psychiatric evaluation was Chilton’s idea. Over the phone he claimed that it was standard procedure, but Will knew it wasn’t. Not for a case like this. Abigail had never shown any cause for psychiatric concern, besides some form of low-grade anxiety disorder that was no anomaly among kids of her age. </p><p>Despite Will’s concerns, Hannibal casually proposed it in the living room one afternoon. </p><p>Abigail had been boarded up like hurricane shutters since the discussion of a murder gene. They still hadn’t cleared the air on that matter.</p><p>“I’m not crazy.”</p><p>“I know that,” Hannibal answered easily. “This will prove it to those who don’t.”</p><p>Her fingers drummed against her elbow. “Can we just do it now?”</p><p>“I will not be conducting the evaluation.”</p><p>She frowned. “Why not? You’re my psychiatrist.”</p><p>“I am <em> a </em>psychiatrist,” Hannibal corrected. “I do not have the capability to be subjective, in this case. I have referred you to a close colleague who I trust implicitly.”</p><p>“Alana?”</p><p>“No. A woman named Dr Du Maurier. I have known her for many—”</p><p>“I’m not going.” </p><p>She dropped onto the couch and crossed her arms. Allen jumped up beside her and rested his scruffy head on her knee.</p><p>Hannibal blew air out of his mouth. It ruffled the ends of his hair which, since putting his practise on hold, he wore loose over his forehead. He turned on his heel into the kitchen and allowed the doors to rattle shut behind him. The muffled sound of clattering pans followed shortly.</p><p>At least none of them would go hungry tonight.</p><p>Will patted Allen somewhat awkwardly between the ears and sat carefully beside Abigail, palms anchored to his knees.</p><p>The silence stretched on for a few painful minutes, as the dog's eyes flicked between them, measuring the situation. Abigail ran her fingers through his mottled fur.</p><p>“What do I do if this is what I am?” she muttered.</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>She passed Allen’s fur through her fingers, then moved her hand to another area and did it again. “What if I have this thing inside me, and I can’t help it? What if I’m… predisposed.”</p><p>“There’s nothing inside you.”</p><p>“Maybe <em> you </em> don’t think so.”</p><p>She cast a glance at the kitchen door. He could just about make out Hannibal’s silhouette through the frosted glass.</p><p>“He’s just worried about you.”</p><p>“Right."</p><p>“You don’t believe me?”</p><p>She watched the dog’s fur move against her fingernails, pushing them against the grain. The polish from the arraignment was chipping.</p><p>“I believe he’s worried, but… I think he’s worried that I’m crazy, and that I’ll fuck up his perfect image. I’ve already done that.”</p><p>Although the curtains were drawn for fear of reporters getting too comfortable, the light from the window cast a lovely halo around her. </p><p>“Have I ever told you about when we adopted you?”</p><p>Her lip quirked, “The lengthy auditing process?”</p><p>“There was that,” he admitted, "but I meant the moment that we decided. When we knew the <em> lengthy process </em> would be worth it.”</p><p>She shook her head, still looking at the dog.</p><p>“It was my first month working under Jack Crawford,” Will explained, "your dad and I had been together for about a year at that point, and I’d been brought in to consult on the Minnesota Shrike. Hannibal didn’t like it; he thought I was getting too caught up in it. I mean, I would bring the case files home and stack up file boxes next to our bed.”</p><p>She huffed a short laugh, “That sounds like you.”</p><p>“Exactly,” he agreed. “When we found him, I was the first person on the scene, and I was too late.” </p><p>Her throat moved in a dry swallow. She didn’t remember that day — a fact that he would be eternally grateful for — but the truth of her biological parents' fate still weighed on her. She grieved parents that she had never truly known, a life that she never had the chance to live.</p><p>He patted her knee, bringing her back to him. “I was calling it in when I heard a sound from another room. Like… crying. Choking, maybe. I followed it to the nursery, and there you were. You stopped crying, and you just looked up at me with these big blue eyes and — there it was. Everything I’d been missing. Colour and light and, well, myself.”</p><p>He smiled, despite himself, remembering the way he had swaddled her in his jacket. How small she had seemed amongst the fabric. How she’d insisted on holding onto him with one of her pudgy little hands, despite the cold. </p><p>“The EMTs tried to look you over, but you would scream bloody murder whenever you weren’t in my arms, so I held you all the way to the hospital. I called Hannibal, and he got the first flight over to meet you and I watched him have the exact same moment of clarity. Despite everything he’d been through. Despite swearing that he would never start a family, he knew. You were special, you had the ability to — to change us and make us something better than we were. And you did, you still do.”</p><p>Her eyes were misty when she blinked up at him, obscured by a curtain of dark hair. He gently tucked it behind her ear. “You changed us, guppy. You still are changing us. Nothing could ruin that, especially not anything that you could do.”</p><p>“I didn’t kill her,” she whispered. </p><p>“I know.” </p><p>Selfishly, he tucked an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close, until she was curled against his chest. She felt almost as small as she had on that first day.</p><p> </p><p>
  <strong>October 20, 2018.</strong>
</p><p>Bedelia Du Maurier considered Hannibal over the top of her half-moon glasses, which she slipped off her nose and onto the glass table beside her with a practised ease. In return, Hannibal smiled pleasantly, an expression which she did not mirror. This was her first professional appointment in eighteen months, but she looked just as stoic and objective in her own living room as she would have in an office. </p><p>The room almost was an office, anyway; there was no television, and a neat desk took up the space opposite the couch. Everything on the desk was either black or grey, and there were no personal touches beside a single yellow rose in a china vase. Will pinched a petal between his fingers, it was tissue-paper soft.</p><p>Hannibal drummed his fingers delicately against the curve of his knee. Dr Du Maurier's eyes flicked down to the movement, and then to Will.</p><p>“Would you care to take a seat, Mr Graham?”</p><p>It sounded more like an instruction than a request. She hadn’t mastered the art of suggestion quite as well as Hannibal had. </p><p>They were like lions, circling each other in the small space. Will had no interest in becoming Daniel, thrown into their den, so he crossed behind Hannibal’s chair to take the seat beside him.</p><p>“I want to make it perfectly clear that there is no reason to hide anything from me,” she explained, once Will was settled. “What I find during these sessions can only help Abigail. Once I submit my report to Mr Chilton, it is up to you what you do with it.”</p><p>“And if we decide to throw it out?” Will asked. </p><p>Hannibal considered him with a sidelong glance, but stayed quiet.</p><p>She pursed her lips. “You would be at full liberty to do that. I would just like to ask that you don’t hold anything back during these discussions; there is no need to defend Abigail here.”</p><p>Will noted her use of <em> discussions.</em> Not interviews, not interrogations, <em> discussions. </em>That was a word he used with suspects who didn’t want to talk, to coax them out of their walls and convince them <em> I’m not accusing you of anything, we’re just having a discussion.</em> He didn’t see a reason not to defend Abigail, given that everything they said would inevitably be passed on to Chilton. There was no doctor-patient confidentiality in a murder trial.</p><p>Hannibal didn’t seem to understand this. Or, if he did, he didn’t seem to care. Nothing was kept behind the floodgates of his calm demeanour; any and all boundaries crumbled once Dr Du Maurier asked her first question, and her second, and her third. </p><p>"What was Abigail like as a child?"</p><p>Will watched Hannibal’s side profile, perplexed at the complex shift and twist of muscle as he searched for words.</p><p>“Abigail was always a complex child. A pediatrician once described her as having a penchant for manipulation.”</p><p><em>"Manipulation?"</em> Will spat, unable to stop himself.</p><p>The mask Hannibal wore teetered precariously, and his face slipped into momentary blankness. His strict moral code came with a set of pre-packaged expressions, set to dispense at any moment, but Will often caused the conveyor belt that controlled Hannibal’s emotional responses to short circuit and stop altogether. He had no set response for the exception to his moral compass, leaving the needle spinning wildly through North.</p><p>“Mr Graham,” Dr Du Maurier purred, "this will only work if you allow each other to speak.”</p><p>“He’s allowed to speak,” Will said, "but Abigail must have been — I don’t know — <em>four </em> years old when the doctor said that? I don’t see how it’s relevant.”</p><p>Her face slipped into a carefully orchestrated smile. He wondered how many pre-packaged emotional responses she came with.</p><p>“It’s all relevant, Mr Graham. Please, Hannibal, continue.”</p><p>He hated the way she said Hannibal's name. <em>Hannibal.</em> Extended vowels. Vocal fry pushed through the rounded <em>a. </em>She always had said his name like that, and Will had never let it touch him before. He put his hands in his lap and seethed silently.</p><p>“She knew how to get what she wanted, as a child," Hannibal was saying, "she seemed to know exactly when to cry to get our attention. There were certain cries for certain situations. If she wanted Will to console her, she knew how to get him.”</p><p>There was a note of fondness running through his tone, but the hidden melody hurt Will’s head. What was he <em> trying </em> to do?</p><p>His own voice was quiet, “That’s not manipulation, Hannibal. That’s just being a kid. Kids need their parents.”</p><p>“How many times did you get up to her cries, only to find her silenced the moment she was in your arms?”</p><p>“What are you trying to say?”</p><p>Hannibal’s throat moved with a swallow. He didn’t seem to be looking at Dr Du Maurier, but just past her, the light from the large windows reflected in his eyes.</p><p>“There is little evidence that babies and toddlers are capable of the complex thought processes that are required to manipulate the behaviour of others.” Dr Du Maurier folded her hands carefully in her lap. “Did she continue to exhibit this kind of behavior throughout adolescence?”</p><p>Will was quick to answer, “No. She didn’t.”</p><p>Hannibal fixed him with a sharp look. “Will, please. Abigail suffered an extreme trauma at a crucial developmental stage, it’s likely it had some affect—”</p><p>“So you’re going to analyse everything she does? Have you been keeping notes, <em>doctor?”</em></p><p>A muscle in Hannibal’s jaw ticked. It had been a long time since Will had called him anything other than his first name in earnest, and Will secretly knew that it was unfair. Hannibal glanced down at his lap and rolled his lips.</p><p>His voice was low and grave, barely a rumble of admittance. "Abigail stole something.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>Hannibal fixed his gaze on Dr Du Maurier, as if <em>she </em>deserved this explanation.</p><p>“She stole a knife from a local camping store. She admitted it to me when I found it and confronted her."</p><p>“You told me you didn’t know anything about it." Will remembered the blanched look on Hannibal's face when he'd handed the box to him that morning. Guilt, not outrage or shock. “You said you didn’t know anything, Hannibal. You let her lie to me and you covered for her.”</p><p>“I wasn’t aware that she still had it. I had told her to return it."</p><p>Will scrubbed both hands over his face, searching for a semblance of peace in the momentary darkness and the rough burn of stubble against his palms.</p><p>“You should have <em>made</em> her return it. You should have marched her back in there and <em>made</em> her put it back.”</p><p>“It would have been counterproductive. I wanted her to take responsibility for her own actions.”</p><p>“And that worked out brilliantly, didn’t it?”</p><p>He at least had the decency to look somewhat ashamed. “Can we discuss this when we get home?”</p><p>“No need, I’m done.” The chair Will was sat on scraped back a few inches when he stood. Dr Du Maurier regarded it calmly. “Thanks for your time, Dr Du Maurier, but this was a terrible idea.”</p><p>He had just reached the car when Hannibal emerged from the house, carrying both of their coats over one arm. He lifted one hand, and the keys swung from his middle finger.</p><p>“Smug asshole,” Will grumbled, and snatched them from him.</p><p>Abigail was spending the day with Alana and Margot, so after a tense, silent car journey home, Will had no qualms with heading straight to the living room mini-bar. He knocked back a glass of whisky and poured himself another. Hannibal stood against the opposite wall and waited.</p><p>“You are fucking unbelievable.” </p><p>Hannibal bowed his head. </p><p>Will wanted a fight. He wanted to fight like a normal couple and go to bed angry at each other and the world. He wanted raised voices and low insults and for Hannibal to make him sleep on the couch. He needed it. For a moment, he considered pressing his hands against Hannibal’s chest and <em> pushing </em> just to see what he would do. Whether he could shatter his perfect composure and reduce him to something human.</p><p>“People lie, Hannibal,” he said, instead, "they lie and they have bad days and they're rude and they — they <em>steal.</em> Even if your — frankly fucking ridiculous — moral code won’t let you believe it."</p><p>The decanter of whisky glinted in the light, like the curve of the blade. He put his glass down so hard it might have shattered against the table.</p><p>It didn’t. He was almost disappointed.</p><p>Will crossed his arms. “What would you have done if I’d lied about that?”</p><p>Hannibal's throat moved. He glanced up, dark eyes through darker lashes. “I would have been angry with you.”</p><p>Will moved slowly. His teeth tore through the skin inside his cheek. “What else?”</p><p>“I would have been offended that you hadn’t told me.” Hannibal lifted his head, just a little, as Will approached. “It would have forced me to wonder whether you trusted me as much as you said you did.”</p><p>“What else?”</p><p>“I would have forgiven you.” Hannibal tilted his chin up a little more. His breath danced across the high points of Will’s face. “Eventually. I would have understood that you did what you thought was for the best, and that you never intended to lie or betray my trust.”</p><p>“Jesus fucking Christ, Hannibal.”</p><p>He got a fistful of Hannibal’s hair, and crushed their mouths together.</p><p>Hannibal gasped into his mouth, an aborted sound, and crushed the collar of Will’s shirt in one hand. The other came up against the small of his back and pressed him slowly forward until they were flush together. He felt the jump of Hannibal’s abdomen when he nipped at his bottom lip and smoothed his tongue over the spot until he could taste copper.</p><p>“I’m still angry at you,” he muttered.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>Big hands smoothed down his flanks, and cupped his hips for a moment before continuing down to his thighs. His fingers pressed into the skin there, pushing more insistently until Will lifted up onto his toes. </p><p>“Hannibal,” he warned.</p><p>Hannibal pulled back just enough to flash a near predatory smile, and the ground dropped from underneath him. Will struggled uselessly, bringing his hands down against Hannibal’s shoulders until he was deposited onto his back on the firm couch cushions. Hannibal stood over him, wearing his smug grin.</p><p>“You are such an asshole," Will said.</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal agreed. </p><p>He pressed one knee between Will’s legs and leaned over him, covering him with a warm body and laundered fabric. Will had half a mind to push him away, but then Hannibal was kissing him again, and he arched up until Hannibal understood and bore down and covered him with his full weight. Will’s hips stuttered up; it felt like so long since they’d been close like this. Hannibal smiled against his mouth.</p><p>Will tugged his hair. “Say <em> anything, </em> and I swear to god.”</p><p>“I wouldn’t dream of it.” </p><p>Hannibal dragged his smirk across Will’s skin, past the unkempt line of his beard, and nipped at the delicate skin that contained the uneven jump of his pulse. A whine rolled from Will’s mouth, like an injured animal trapped in his chest. He ground his teeth against it, and Hannibal pressed an open-mouthed kiss to the tense column of his throat. His teeth scraped against the sharp peak of his Adam's apple.</p><p>Will groaned, and tried to sit up. “No marks. <em> Hannibal. </em>Don’t leave any—”</p><p>“Will.” Hannibal pressed a hand to his chest, effectively pushing him back down. “Relax. Let me take care of you.”</p><p>Will relented, eventually, and slumped back against the couch. “Make it up to me, more like.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled wickedly. “What would you have me do, to make it up to you?”</p><p>“Are you gonna make me say it?”</p><p>Hannibal hummed, as if seriously considering it, and rolled his hips down. The pressure sent a jolt of electricity up through Will’s stomach and punched a short, sharp moan from his mouth. Hannibal chuckled and dipped his head down to mouth at Will’s throat. He flicked open the top few buttons of Will’s shirt and pushed it aside to get his mouth on the sensitive juncture of his neck and shoulder. Will scraped his nails through the short hairs at Hannibal’s nape and tipped his head to the side, giving him better access.</p><p>There had been a time, years ago, where he had sunk his teeth hard enough into that spot to leave crescent bruises that lasted days. </p><p>He dug the fingers of his other hand into Hannibal’s hip, dragging their crotches together. A low groan rumbled through their chests, and Will wasn’t sure which one of them it came from. He was dizzy, with Hannibal’s undivided attention on his throat and his hands wandering down his torso to work the rest of the buttons and push his shirt open.</p><p>A line of wet, open-mouthed kisses moved down the center of his chest. Hannibal rubbed one finger across the smooth plane of Will’s stomach, just above his navel, and followed its path with his tongue.</p><p>Small points of pain pricked through Will’s stomach when Hannibal nipped at the skin. Will writhed. <em>"</em><em>Christ, </em>what are you even doing?”</p><p><em>"Hannibal</em> will suffice,” he said, and earned himself a light whack to the shoulder for the trouble. He turned his face against Will’s stomach and breathed in. “I am committing you to memory.”</p><p>“Hannibal.” Will threaded his fingers into Hannibal’s hair and pulled, urging him up. “Hannibal. Look at me.”</p><p>Hannibal looked up, head tilted ever so slightly. Blown pupils, ruffled hair that should have been something close to ridiculous but wasn't. He somehow made kiss-swollen lips dignified. Will framed his face with both hands, and felt rare pin-prick stubble against his palms. </p><p>“You don’t need to memorize me. I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>He smoothed the pad of his thumb over Hannibal’s bottom lip. Hannibal turned his head and pressed a kiss to the dip of Will’s palm.</p><p>“We are always at the mercy of forces out of our control. It’s important to be prepared.”</p><p>“You could just say you love me, you know.”</p><p>Hannibal spoke as if pressing the words into Will’s skin, <em>“No man or woman born, coward or brave, can shun his destiny.”</em></p><p>“The Iliad,” Will found himself whispering, “do you think we’re doomed?”</p><p>“Achilles and Patroclus were not doomed.” Hannibal covered Will’s hand on his face with his own, holding it there. “Achilles’ rage was their downfall.”</p><p>“He angered Apollo. It took divine intervention to bring them down."</p><p>Hannibal closed his eyes. “Yes, it did.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Well-Tempered Clavier: Prelude No. 1 in C Major, BWV 846</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Beverly has a proposal for Will, and Hannibal takes Abigail grocery shopping.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2015</b>
</p><p>“You look nervous.”</p><p>Beverly looped her finger through Will’s bowtie and tugged it tight. He fumbled with his cufflinks, the silver slipping against his clammy palms, and wondered whether Hannibal was having the same discussion with Alana. </p><p>Undoubtedly, he was doing a better job at dressing himself.</p><p>“We’re already married,” he said. “This is just… making it legal.”</p><p>Ten years ago, Hannibal had paid far too handsomely for a ceremony in Italy. He’d insisted on it, just as he’d insisted on the rings and the catering and just about everything else. While they were not legally recognized as spouses in the eyes of the American government, they were as good as married to everyone who mattered. They shared insurance, and a bank account, and the idea of another ceremony felt almost performative at this stage.</p><p>Abigail had been there that day, still a fairly new addition to their family, the final missing piece. She’d clutched the lapels of Alana’s suit and gargled happily when she got handed a handful of rose petals to throw. She stood behind Beverly now, fourteen years old and a picture in her new dress. </p><p>“You look good, dad,” she assured him. “Papa will be really impressed.”</p><p><em> “Papa </em>will be grateful I’m dressed at all.” </p><p>Will pushed at the cufflink again, and it clattered to the wooden floor. She picked it up, just about holding back an exasperated expression, and slipped past Beverly to take his wrist. He watched the miniscule twitch of her brow as she slipped it through the fabric. </p><p>“You know this doesn’t change anything, right?" he said. "It’s just a formality.”</p><p>Logically, he knew that she wasn't worrying about it, but that couldn’t stop his anxiety about rocking the boat. Before her, before Hannibal, stability had always been a fleeting friend. He never wanted her to feel the same. </p><p>“Dad—" she grabbed his sleeve—"Will you stop worrying about me for, like, two seconds?”</p><p>He skimmed his thumb across the high point of her cheekbone, catching her hair — growing out from a blunt fringe that she'd hated — and pushing it behind her ear.</p><p>"I’ll always worry about you, guppy. It’s my job.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes. “Well, don’t. Not today. Take the day off.”</p><p>It was a juvenile outlook on the situation. There were no <em> days off </em>when it came to parenting, but her teenage brain couldn’t comprehend that idea yet. He smiled, and pressed a kiss to her forehead. If anything, he could only be happy that she was still young and naive. </p><p>The clock was ticking down. Beverly clapped him on the back. </p><p>“Come on, big man. Let’s get you married.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>November 10, 2018</b>
</p><p>“I’m not allowed to speak to you,” Beverly said, on their front porch. “I’m not here.”</p><p>Will stepped out of the doorway. “Come in.”</p><p>It wasn’t like her to be skittish, but she didn’t seem to know what to do with her hands as she sat carefully at their kitchen island. Eventually, she settled with them flat on the counter. </p><p>He gestured vaguely towards the coffee machine, already set to a steady pour. “Coffee?”</p><p>She smiled, tight and even, more subdued than he’d ever known her to be, “Please.”</p><p>He was inherently aware of her gazing around the space as he brought another mug down from the cabinet. It felt like a lifetime since she had been in their home, and even longer since she had felt comfortable there. He wondered whether it had changed for her at all, if the counter was an autopsy table, the walls stained with blood.</p><p>“No Hannibal?” she asked as he set the coffee down.</p><p>He leaned back against the counter and held his coffee close enough that he could feel the heat on his chin. </p><p>“He took Abigail to get groceries. If you brought photos, don’t take them out. They’ll be home soon.”</p><p>Her mouth snapped shut. He found himself smiling, just a little, at how predictable she was. </p><p>“I appreciate the visit, Bev, really, but you’re not here out of the good of your heart. Jack knows I’m less likely to bolt if it’s you.”</p><p>“Jack doesn’t know I’m here.” She looped her fingers through the mug handle, her fingernails scraped lightly against the ceramic. “I have a hunch. I guess I’m here to see if I’m crazy.”</p><p>He took a short sip of his coffee and let the weight of that rest on his tongue for a moment. </p><p>“And you’re asking <em> me?” </em> </p><p>A little laugh seemed to creep up on her, directed into her mug before she expertly smoothed her expression out again. </p><p>“Another body showed up. I know I don’t… do what you do, but I just had this <em> feeling. </em>I don’t know. I just wanted you to take a look at it, too.”</p><p>He inclined his head towards the messenger bag tucked under her arm, permission. A small thrill of success sparked across her face, and she flicked the latch open. She slid a manila folder across the island.</p><p>It was a little heavy, but not overwhelmingly so. He pushed his glasses up his nose and flipped it open. The photos were of a forest not unlike where Marissa had been found, although there wasn’t a body hanging from the trees. A man lay in a shallow grave in the marsh, soil piled up around him from the CSI dig.</p><p>The identification was printed in clear, bold letters: <b>BOYLE, NICHOLAS.</b></p><p>“Nicholas Boyle found Marissa’s body,” Will said. “He was the first suspect.”</p><p>Beverly nodded. “He had his wallet on him, we identified him by his driver’s license.”</p><p>Will pushed the top photograph out of the way and peered at the second, framed much closer to Boyle’s face. Decomposition had already rendered him near unrecognisable, but there was still a bloodstain on the collar of his shirt. </p><p>It would have been an identical wound to Marissa Schurr’s. The only difference was the lack of a display. </p><p>Beverly continued, “We spoke to next of kin, and they said that he went to work on October eighth and never came back. Z thinks he’s been dead about a month.”</p><p>
  <em> October eighth.  </em>
</p><p>“That’s the day Abigail was arrested.”</p><p>She nodded. “That’s why I came. She was missing for six hours that day.”</p><p>“She didn’t kill Nicholas Boyle.” </p><p>The folder hit the counter with a <em> slap.  </em></p><p>“Will…”</p><p>“Come on, Beverly,” Will said, "if you thought she did it, you wouldn’t have come here. You would have taken this straight to Jack.”</p><p>She glanced at the table for a breath, and then met his gaze. </p><p>“I know, Will. I need you to help me prove that she didn’t.”</p><p> </p><p>Being a small town surrounded by mostly farms and fields, the people of Wolf Trap had two options for groceries. It was either an hour long drive out of town to the nearest Whole Foods, or the farmer’s market that rolled into town every weekend. </p><p>Hannibal had always appreciated the market — for both the company of the vendors and the promise of the freshest produce — but he had been making the trip into the city for the past month. It would have been inappropriate for him to have been seen luxuriating in the market when a child was dead.</p><p>He was not the one in confinement, though, and Abigail had taken to wandering the house like a captive animal. Trailed by a curious pack, she walked trenches into the carpets and floated through rooms like an aimless ghost. </p><p>It had been Hannibal’s idea to ease her back into society by way of grocery shopping, but Will didn't think she was ready for the two hour round trip into the city. So, the market it was.</p><p>Will had been right, of course. The narcotic ordinariness of the market was a relief for them both. Abigail forgot herself, or the person she had elected to become, and slipped into something much more like the child she had been before Marissa’s murder. </p><p>At Hannibal’s favorite cheese stall, she leaned against his arm and made a quiet joke about the potency of the Gruyère samples that they were offering to customers. Hannibal selected a wheel of it to wave in front of her face, and she laughed as she pushed him away. </p><p>A farmer had brought his sheepdog, and Abigail crouched to pet its head under the table as Hannibal surveyed cuts of meat and tried not to smile. She really could be so much like Will, sometimes. It was near impossible to see the monster that the town had made of her.</p><p>“Can I do anything?” she asked when she straightened up.</p><p>Hannibal tapped his fingers together and considered it. Will would be scandalised if he knew she had been on her own, and he still hadn’t fully forgiven Hannibal after the incident in Bedelia’s office.</p><p>Then again, that day hadn’t ended all too badly for him. Anger was quite becoming on his Will.</p><p>“Figs,” he said. Her eyebrows shot up in surprise and hope. “Get six of them from the stall behind us. Please don’t go any further.”</p><p>“Yeah, yeah, I can do that.” </p><p>A smile threatened to split her face in two, and she kissed him lightly on the cheek before bounding away to do her task.</p><p>The farmer’s voice was gruff and amused behind his unsightly beard, “Give ‘em an inch, they’ll take a mile.”</p><p>“Perhaps,” Hannibal supposed. </p><p>Perhaps it was true for most children, but Abigail knew better. She was too smart to betray his trust at such a crucial stage, when he was finally offering her a taste of the freedom she craved. </p><p>The farmer gestured broadly to his table, an impressive display of meats labelled carefully with slate and chalk. </p><p>“What can I get for you?”</p><p>“Lamb,” Hannibal decided; the lamb cuts were the neatest among what was offered. “Shank. Two should do.”</p><p>“Good choice." The farmer pulled on a pair of plastic gloves to pick up the pieces. “I assume you don’t need preparation instructions?”</p><p>“You assume correct.”</p><p>The farmer whistled happily as he packed the pieces into a paper bag, and Hannibal glanced around calmly. They had timed the trip just right; the crowd in the market thinned out as afternoon dipped into evening. Not many people milled around at this time, and those who did either didn’t recognise him and Abigail or didn’t care. It was a comforting sort of anonymity, punctuated by the snuffling of a sheepdog at his feet.</p><p>Hannibal smelt him first. </p><p>Liquor and cheap aftershave. The heady twinge of grief, still as strong as it had been almost a month ago. He glanced over his shoulder.</p><p>Alistair Schurr was looking dazedly at a selection of brightly colored fruit. He slipped his sunglasses into his fine, receding hair and tested the give of an avocado. He couldn’t have been more than five feet away from Abigail, although she was busy chatting to the vendor and hadn’t noticed him yet.</p><p>Hannibal easily exchanged the paper bag of lamb for a ten dollar bill and calmly observed the unfolding situation. </p><p>Schurr’s wife, Martha, had joined him. She had always worn a pinched sort of expression, but she carried the distinctive energy of a woman who had been beautiful once. The woman her daughter would never grow into. She had never liked Hannibal and Will — or Abigail, for that matter — she was much more likely to confront them than Alistair was. </p><p>He placed himself between her and Abigail and pressed a hand between her protruding shoulder blades. </p><p>“Abigail, we have to go.”</p><p>Abigail cast a dejected look at the fruit in her hands. </p><p>“What about the food?” </p><p>“Some other time,” Hannibal said. “Come.”</p><p>Her gaze flicked over his face and landed on a spot just over his shoulder. Bright blue eyes widened, just a fraction, and the figs rolled out of her hands.</p><p>"Is that…?”</p><p>“We have to go,” Hannibal said again, but she was frozen in place.</p><p>He spared a glance over his shoulder. The Schurrs had noticed them. They stared right back with grief-gaunt eyes and slack jaws. Alistair’s surprise barely registered on his face — most likely a product of his self-medication — but Martha seemed predictably offended by their presence.</p><p>Hannibal fished his keys from his pocket.</p><p>“Go and wait in the car.”</p><p>Abigail allowed him to drop them into her hand, but she did not move. It was impossible to imagine what she was considering, and he was tempted to warn her against it. Anything she could say or do in this moment would only be painful or tactless or provocative.</p><p>“Abigail,” he said. “Wait in the car.”</p><p>She pushed the keys back into his hands and shook her head.</p><p>“No. We have a right to be here. We have a right to eat, as much as anyone else.”</p><p>Her fingers found the figs again, and she collected a handful of them — six, exactly. Dark hair fell over her face, but what he could see of her expression was serene as she tore off a paper bag and dropped the fruit into it. She handed it to the vendor, daring him to question her.</p><p>When he glanced back over his shoulder, the Schurrs had moved on. </p><p>He had never been so proud.</p><p> </p><p>“What’s on your mind?”</p><p>Will blinked at his own reflection. The mirror was misty in each corner. A drop of condensation split his face perfectly down the middle.</p><p>He’d been thinking about Nicholas Boyle, about decomp rates and distance, about Beverly and blind trust. Hannibal slotted against his back and pressed the bridge of his nose to the top of his spine. Will spat toothpaste into the sink and ran the faucet.</p><p>“What did you do with the knife?” </p><p>Hannibal’s mouth ceased it’s journey across Will’s skin. He pulled back, and met Will’s gaze in the mirror. He didn’t look surprised — he was barely ever surprised — but curiosity ticked at the fine lines above his brow. </p><p>“I removed it from the house.” He squeezed Will’s hips above the towel tied around them, where his fingers could dig a little into the flesh. When Will didn’t react, he continued. “I took it to my office. It’s still there.”</p><p>He didn’t make a habit of visiting Hannibal’s office in Baltimore, but he knew that it was essentially a labyrinth of Hannibal’s mind. If he didn’t want something to be found there, it wouldn’t be. Will nodded, and dropped his toothbrush back into the ceramic holder. It knocked against Hannibal’s, rattled for a moment, and stilled.</p><p>“Before or after Abigail was arrested?”</p><p>“What are you asking, Will?”</p><p>Will let out a short breath. There was the small nick of a scar on the bridge Hannibal’s nose; he’d never asked about it, but Hannibal's eyes fluttered closed when he brushed his lips over it. </p><p>“Nothing. Let’s go to bed.”</p><p> </p><p>A young stablehand watched Will with a kind of reserved curiosity as he approached her and the large brown horse that she was grooming. Her hair was tugged into a braid, and dark flyways fanned out from beneath a black helmet.</p><p>“Do you have to wear that when you’re not riding them?”</p><p>“Company policy; there was an accident.” She squinted up at him. “Who are you?”</p><p>He rested his forearms on the metal gate. The horse regarded him momentarily, but didn’t seem interested in him otherwise. </p><p>“I’m looking for Peter Bernadone.”</p><p>She brought her brush slowly across the horse’s back in one smooth motion.</p><p>“Who wants to know?”</p><p>“I represent Abigail Lecter-Graham.”</p><p>A blank look.</p><p>“The murder in Wolf Trap?”</p><p>“Are you her lawyer?”</p><p>“Father, actually.”</p><p>“Hm. Are you a cop?”</p><p>There wasn’t much use or point in lying to her. “FBI agent. Suspended.”</p><p>“Because of the murder?”</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>She rolled her lips, considering that for a moment. “What do you want with Peter?”</p><p>“I want to ask him about Clark Ingram.”</p><p>The fluid motion of her shoulders, flowing through her elbow and wrist as she brought the brush across the horse, stopped short. Her teeth worried at her bottom lip. </p><p>“Are you investigating him?”</p><p>“Call it a personal interest,” Will said. “Has Peter told you about him?”</p><p>She shook her head, and resumed her brushing. The careful swish of the bristles against the horse’s hair was the only sound below her soft voice. “He won’t talk about it.”</p><p>“Is he here?”</p><p>Her jaw tensed, for a moment. She dropped the brush onto a hay bale in the corner of the stable. </p><p>“Come with me.”</p><p>She led him past the horses poking their noses out of the stalls, and unclasped her helmet when they stepped down out of the wooden stable structure. Gravel crunched beneath their feet as they crossed the grounds. </p><p>“He probably won’t talk to you,” she said. “He doesn’t talk much.”</p><p>“Why not?”</p><p>She rolled her helmet between her hands. </p><p>“That accident I told you about? Peter fell over in the stable and got kicked in the head by the horse he’d been grooming. He, uh… he seemed to be more upset about the horse getting put down than he was about almost dying.”</p><p>They had come up on a large white barn. She stopped short of the ajar door and chewed on her lower lip again.</p><p>“Just… go easy on him, yeah?”</p><p>“Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.”</p><p>“No worries.”</p><p>She gave him one final, wary lookover before heading back towards the stables. </p><p>The old wooden door swung open easier than he would have expected, and he stepped into the stuffy space. Metal cages lined every wall, floor-to-ceiling, and a table not unlike the autopsy table at the lab stood empty in the center of the room. Low scratching and skittering seemed to bleed out of the walls, like the room itself was alive.</p><p>He knocked on the doorframe, and the room exploded with noise.</p><p>Animals in all different stages of medical care threw themselves against the doors of their cages and squawked at him. He fell a half-step back, and considered turning straight back out.</p><p>“You scared them, knocking like that.”</p><p>A lean, weathered looking boy emerged from a door on the far side, a stack of folded cloth in his hands. He skipped right over Will to lower the cloth pieces over the cages. The chatter silenced almost immediately.</p><p>“Peter Bernadone?”</p><p>The police reports about Clark Ingram’s indecent A&amp;B case described the victim as fifteen years old. Peter looked a little older than that, with a wild, self-cut mullet and dull skin marred with a thick, brutal scar that started on his forehead and disappeared beneath his hairline.</p><p>“You don’t seem curious who I am,” Will said, when it became clear Peter wasn’t going to answer.</p><p>Peter nodded, a jerky little movement. He lifted the cloth from one of the cages and laid it flat across the top before he looked at the animal inside. He seemed happy with what he found, shut his eyes, and put the cloth back down.</p><p>“Peter,” Will urged. The boy looked at him, and he continued. “I came to talk to you about Clark Ingram.”</p><p>“Clark Ingram,” Peter repeated. He had a slight speech impediment that softened the <em> R </em>sound. “Who are you?”</p><p>“I’m Abigail Lecter-Graham’s father. The girl who’s accused in the Wolf Trap murder.”</p><p>Peter moved to the next cage and followed the same ritual as before; lift the cloth, place it down, look inside, shut his eyes, lift the cloth, lay it back down.</p><p>“You had a head injury, is that right?” Will asked.</p><p>He nodded again, and gestured to the jagged scar on his head. “Kicked by a horse.”</p><p>Besides the obvious brain damage that affected every move and speech pattern, he seemed almost passive about the incident. </p><p>“Clark Ingram was your social worker,” Will said. “What was he like?”</p><p>Peter looked away from him. “Mr Ingram was— he was good.”</p><p>Will couldn’t tell if he was deflecting, or if he genuinely believed what he was saying. He had a skittish, calm way of speaking which put everything on the same level. He could have been talking about a convicted abuser or the weather in the same breath, the same tone.</p><p>“Peter, he molested you.”</p><p>Peter stopped. His hands still shook at his sides. He couldn’t seem to keep his fingers still. </p><p>“He didn’t. I — he didn’t.”</p><p>“You reported it,” Will said, carefully. “You told the police, do you remember?”</p><p>Peter didn’t answer. He went very still, and placed one hand on top of the cloth that lay over one of the cages. </p><p>“Your kid didn’t do it.”</p><p>He spoke so quietly that Will almost didn’t catch it, and was convinced that he’d misheard.</p><p>“Sorry?”</p><p>“Your kid didn’t do it,” Peter repeated.</p><p>Will’s heart pounded. </p><p>“How do you know that?”</p><p>“Because Mr Ingram did.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>sorry this took so long! thank you all for sticking around if you have, and for all of the lovely comments on the last chapters. comments really are my lifeblood, they motivate me more than you could ever know. hopefully you'll have less of a wait for the next chapter! &lt;33</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Fantasie Impromtu, Op. 66</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Abigail's trial begins, and Will has a strange night.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Abigail’s trial started on a Wednesday.</p><p>Much like that morning in September, their house was perfectly silent. Unlike that morning, when he had been fizzing with anxiety, Will waded through molasses to shower and dress himself. Hannibal didn’t join him in the shower, as he liked to, and was dressed in the plainest three-piece he’d ever worn as he made them breakfast. Abigail was sitting at the island, staring at her phone.</p><p>“I have a Twitter hashtag,” she said. “I’m a trending topic.”</p><p>Will looked up from the newspaper that he wasn’t reading. “What does that mean?”</p><p>She gave him a withered look. </p><p>“It means people are talking about me on Twitter. But you normally only trend if you’re, like, Taylor Swift or something.”</p><p>There was a note of reserved excitement in her tone that made him scowl. It wasn’t the first time that her minor internet fame had come up, since a school friend had put together a blog to support her. It had started small, just a message board where people could wish her well for the trial or declare her innocence, until an old news article from the Hobbs’ unfortunate demise had been dug up by Freddie Lounds. It had the opposite effect than the reporter had perhaps been hoping for, having only served to boost Abigail’s internet celebrity. </p><p>“What are they saying?” Hannibal asked politely, although Will knew that he had been tracking every comment made about her in every corner of the internet.</p><p>“There are some bad things,” she admitted. “But it’s like… seventy percent positive.”</p><p>“Seventy percent?” Will said.</p><p>“About.”</p><p>“You’ve been following it that closely?”</p><p>“It only happened today. But, yeah, of course I’ve been reading it.”</p><p>Will shared a look with Hannibal, hoping to find some shared contempt and instead finding a placid, blank expression.</p><p>“Maybe you should stay off Twitter until this is all over,” Will said. Who knew what would happen with the trial if she ever decided to <em> respond </em>to any of these flattering messages?</p><p>“I only read it, Dad,” she said, as if she could sense his worries. “I’m a lurker.”</p><p>He grimaced. “Please don’t use that word.”</p><p>“Abigail,” Hannibal said, finally. “I think your dad is trying to say that the next few weeks will be easier on us all if we try to stay on the same page. So maybe we should all just close our ears for a bit.”</p><p>Abigail grinned, oblivious and brave. “Then I’d miss my fifteen minutes of fame.” </p><p>Will’s expression was undoubtedly one of abject horror. Hannibal just smiled.</p><p>“Let’s hope you have your fifteen minutes of fame for something else.”</p><p> </p><p>The trial itself, as Will should have predicted, started with an innate sense of anticlimax.</p><p>They waited in the gallery of the courtroom as the clock ticked on. Chilton, naturally, appeared unfazed by the severe delay and only checked in with the judge’s clerk once, who irritably informed him that there were problems with the single news camera that was permitted in the courtroom. He looked annoyed about this for a brief moment before he opened up his copy of the <em> New York Times </em>and resigned himself to waiting.</p><p>Eventually, the error was fixed and Judge Davies swept into the courtroom an hour after the hearing had been scheduled to begin. Will channeled all of his anxious energy into tapping his fingers against his knee as Chilton was called to give their preliminary motions.</p><p>“Your Honor, I have filed a motion <em> in limine </em>to exclude scientific evidence based on an alleged genetic predisposition to violence.”</p><p>Will held his breath. </p><p>“As I understand it,” Judge Davies said. “Your position is that the science has not been established and, even if it was, there is no specific evidence of a violent propensity, genetic or otherwise, in this case. Is that right?”</p><p>“Yes, Your Honor. That’s it.”</p><p>The judge turned towards the prosecutor’s table. “Mr Brauner. Do you want to be heard or will you rest on your brief?”</p><p>Leonard Brauner stood. His suit didn’t quite fit him. Hannibal bridged the gap between them on the bench and took Will’s hand in his. His face betrayed nothing, but his thumb rubbed over the swell of Will’s wrist.</p><p>“Your Honor, I believe that to exclude this evidence would be a mistake. Science continues to advance every day. The defendant’s father, Mr Graham, works in behavioral analysis that often coincides with the ideas of behavioral genetics and to throw this out would be hypocrit—"</p><p>The judge raised a hand. “The motion is allowed.” </p><p>Brauner stood there for a moment, open-mouthed.</p><p>“Mr Brauner,” the judge said. “I have not excluded the evidence. If you want to offer it, you will have to provide notice to the defense and we will hold a separate hearing on its admissibility. Not a word of it until I rule it’s coming in.”</p><p>“Understood, Your Honor.”</p><p>The judge nodded. “Good. This is a highly sensitive trial; I will not see this courtroom become a circus.”</p><p> </p><p>That night, Hannibal made them an elaborate dinner. In the safety of their dining room, Will loosened his tie and tried not to feel anxious about the hope that had been all over Abigail’s face since the judge had ruled against the <em> murder gene.  </em></p><p>Burning off the nervous energy from the day, Hannibal and Abigail kept the conversation going and Will found that he, thankfully, didn’t have to contribute much. He sat back and half-listened while Hannibal encouraged Abigail to talk and talk and talk. </p><p>In the curve of Hannibal's spine as he passed dishes across the table and sipped his wine and listened, Will glimpsed an echo of the man he had fallen in love with. The man who had walked into his life nearly twenty years ago, who had sat opposite him and showed him the world. The man who had held elaborate dinner parties and dropped to his knees in the kitchen while his guests enjoyed their starters. </p><p>He hadn’t noticed it until now, but it was becoming clearer that he had changed. They both had. Inexplicably so.</p><p>A light shone through the thick navy curtains, unnoticed by Hannibal and Abigail, and streamed directly into his face. He blinked hard and placed his silverware down.</p><p>Engrossed in conversation, neither of them noticed when he went to the window. More curious than concerned, he pulled the curtain back a little and peered out onto the street. The car was parked a house or two down, and the glare of the headlights totally obscured the driver from view. He could just about recognize the make.</p><p>“Does anyone on the street drive a sedan?” he asked nobody in particular.</p><p>The conversation ceased, and in a moment Hannibal was behind him. He reached over Will’s shoulder to pull the curtain back a little more. He made a little interested noise at the back of his throat, but didn’t answer.</p><p>“Probably just waiting for someone,” Will supposed. </p><p>The headlights were starting to give him a headache. He pinched the bridge of his nose and screwed his eyes shut.</p><p>“What if it’s a reporter?” Abigail asked from the table.</p><p>“Abigail…” Will sighed.</p><p>“Sorry.”</p><p>“No,” Hannibal said. “She has a point. Why don’t I go out and speak to him?”</p><p>Will turned, mostly so that he didn’t have to look directly at the light anymore, and ended up almost flush against Hannibal. He pressed his fingertips to the breast of Hannibal’s suit. </p><p>“It’s fine. It’s probably just an old guy waiting for someone, he probably doesn’t realise his headlights are so bright.”</p><p>Hannibal frowned skeptically. “It might be for the best to be safe, in this instance.”</p><p>Will pressed his fingers more insistently against his chest. “It’s just a car.”</p><p>The corner of Hannibal’s mouth ticked upwards, a flash of amusement. </p><p>“And you’re sure?”</p><p>“I’m sure. It’s just a car.”</p><p> </p><p>It was not just a car.</p><p>Will took out the trash late that night, because all three of them had forgotten about it in the post-hearing exhaustion. He was walking two black bags to the trash cans at the end of their driveway when he noticed the car again. It had moved from hours ago, and was now parked two houses away in the opposite direction. The headlights were off.</p><p>He looked into the dark and tried to make out some details, but it was parked in the dead space between street lights. Cast in total obscurity.</p><p>The headlights came on at once, and stars burst in Will’s vision. Trash clattered to the sidewalk. </p><p>He left it there, unimportant right now, and approached the car slowly. It backed away just as cautiously, and then moved away fast. It stopped, and he stopped, like a matador and a bull. He waited, waited, waited. He couldn’t make out anything about the car, not the color or the make and certainly not the driver.</p><p>Then, the engine roared, and in a second it was speeding towards him.</p><p>He scrambled back onto the sidewalk, having not realised he’d moved into the street, and felt the breeze when it sped past. It stopped just as suddenly, two houses down the other way, and the lights and the engine shut off.</p><p>He approached the driver’s side like an animal approaching prey. The car seemed to be holding its breath along with him. He had fantasies about pulling the guy out of the car, pinning him down on the sidewalk and warning him to stay the fuck away from their house. From his family.</p><p>The car was empty. He peered into the driver’s window, and found nothing. It was just a parked car. </p><p>What had he seen?</p><p>Huffing breath ruffled the back of his t-shirt. He glanced into the window, but not through it, at his own reflection in the glass. Over his shoulder, one red eye blinked at him, and then another as the stag inclined its head curiously. It was waiting for something. For what?</p><p>“Will?”</p><p>Hannibal was there when he woke, a firm body to catch him when his knees buckled. Strong arms came up beneath his armpits and secured around his chest to keep him upright. It was not as dark as it had been a moment ago. The neighbor’s curtains twitched.</p><p>When he could stand of his own accord, Hannibal kept one arm around his shoulders and led him back into the house. He urged him into one of the plush chairs in the corner of the kitchen. A blanket around his shoulders. He hadn’t realised he was shivering.</p><p>“Where’s my phone?”</p><p>“Will.”</p><p>“I have to— the car—”</p><p>“Will.”</p><p>Will looked up. Hannibal pressed a steaming mug into his hands. The warmth grounded him. “The car. I was… I was taking out the trash, and it was there. And it… it sped at me.”</p><p>“You were dreaming,” Hannibal said. “I woke up and found you missing from bed, and the front door open. I’m not sure how long you were out there, but I’m very glad I found you when I did.”</p><p>Seemingly on cue, he noticed his teeth chattering. The chill that seemed to be bone-deep. He shrugged the blanket further over himself and took a sip of the tea that Hannibal had made.</p><p>“Sleepwalking?”</p><p>Hannibal nodded solemnly. Will shut his eyes.</p><p>“No. No, it can’t— it was so <em> real. </em>The car was—”</p><p>“Will. There was no car.”</p><p>Will blinked. “You mean— the car from earlier. It was still parked out there.”</p><p>Hannibal’s expression was pure concern now. Raw and bleeding.</p><p>“I kept a close eye on the car after you noticed it. It stayed for about an hour, and then left. I took note of the license plate in case, but it seemed to be innocent, as you said.”</p><p>Of course he’d done that. Will hung his head between his knees. “What’s happening to me?”</p><p>Hannibal’s hand buried in his hair and rubbed over his scalp in steady circles. “Stress. Anxiety. Your mind is overloaded with information and is trying to fill in the gaps.”</p><p>He was torn between wanting to get back into the bed he didn’t remember getting into in the first place, and sitting here all night with Hannibal’s hand in his hair. He reached up and caught Hannibal’s wrist loosely in one hand.</p><p>“I want this to be over.”</p><p>“I know,” Hannibal said. “It will be, soon.”</p><p> </p><p>“I would like to talk about our defendant for a moment.”</p><p>Leonard Brauner was wearing the same ill-fitted suit as the previous day. The legs of his suit pants shifted in a way that would make any tailor cry as he paced the length of the jury box. He lingered to make eye contact with each juror, and was met with expressions that were either bored or entirely uninterested. Will wasn’t sure what that meant for their prospects, but it certainly wasn’t a compliment to Brauner’s skills as a lawyer.</p><p>“This is a case about a girl who had everything. A good family, good grades, a beautiful home in a wealthy suburb. She had more than most. But she had something else, too: a lethal temper. A susceptibility to violent mood swings. A penchant for manipulation.”</p><p>Will’s jaw tensed of its own accord. His choice of words, <em> violent, </em>was certainly not a coincidence.</p><p>“This wasn’t just any girl from a good home. This wasn’t just any girl who was teased in the playground. This defendant had something that set her apart.”</p><p>He was close to the defense table now, entirely too close. Disrespecting Abigail by invading her space. Abigail looked down at her lap. Brauner’s gaze slid from her to Will.</p><p>“She had a father who was an FBI agent. A <em> special </em>agent. A profiler. Skilled enough to teach behavioral analysis at the FBI Academy. Her other father was an esteemed psychiatrist, often employed by the FBI to consult on cases. It was how they met. What a... delightful love story.”</p><p>In that moment, Will could have cleared the bench and tackled Brauner. He could have put both hands around his neck and drained the life out of him and felt nothing. Hannibal lay his hand over Will’s on the bench, as if he knew. He probably felt it too.</p><p>Brauner wasn’t done, of course. “This defendant wasn’t some clueless kid. Far from it. She’d watched for years as her father solved major murder cases across the country. She listened to dinner table conversations, heard stories from their glory days, the shop talk. She grew up in a home where murder was the family business.”</p><p><em> Murder was the family business </em>came uncomfortably close to the argument that the prosecution had been barred from making. Hannibal squeezed his hand. </p><p> </p><p>When Jack Crawford took the stand for the prosecution, Will found himself digging his fingernails into his palms. </p><p>They’d been through a cycle of witnesses already, just to establish essential facts and a timetable for the first day of the investigation. The court had already heard from first responders and people who walked through the park regularly. It was unfortunate that Nicholas Boyle could no longer testify.</p><p>Truthfully, Will knew that Jack had no choice but to testify for the prosecution. He had led the investigation, after all. He took Brauner and the court through the basic facts, the positioning of the body and their initial belief that it was the work of the Chesapeake Ripper.</p><p>“Is it usual procedure for the FBI to be called in on a case like this?”</p><p>“Yes. If it’s believed to be linked to an ongoing investigation.”</p><p>“Who did you call to assist you at the crime scene that morning?”</p><p>“My team,” Jack said. “Jimmy Price, Brian Zeller, Beverly Katz and Will Graham.”</p><p>Brauner took a moment to wet his lips with the tip of his tongue, letting Will’s name stir amongst the jury for a moment. </p><p>“What’s your opinion on Mr Graham?”</p><p>“Objection.”</p><p>Brauner regarded Chilton with an easy expression. He wasn’t threatened by the objection. Hailed by the judge, they went to the judge’s bench and talked in low murmurs. Will couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he watched the unhappy twitch of Chilton’s brow as they spoke. Eventually, the conversation came to a halt. Brauner looked across the courtroom, directly at Will.</p><p>Chilton returned to the defense table with an almost apologetic expression. Brauner faced Jack and continued.</p><p>“I’ll rephrase; would you say that Mr Graham is a particularly skilled profiler?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>Brauner considered that. “How long have you known Mr Graham?”</p><p>“A long time.”</p><p>“How long, exactly?”</p><p>“Fifteen years, give or take.”</p><p>“Having known him that long, what is your opinion of him as a profiler? His integrity, his judgement, his… ability.”</p><p>The word <em> ability </em>seemed to sting his tongue as it passed through his mouth. It stung Will, too. He looked down at his lap, at where his fingers overlapped with Hannibal’s, and not at Jack’s reaction.</p><p>“He has a rare gift,” Jack said. “It’s a gift. To him and to us. He’s the best of the best.”</p><p>Brauner pushed his tongue into his cheek. “No further questions.”</p><p><em> No further questions, </em> in this instance, sounded an awful lot like <em> fuck you. </em>Jack knew exactly what he was doing when he said that; Brauner would never again focus so closely on Will’s role in the investigation. </p><p>They walked out of the courtroom that day with a sense of tentative victory.</p><p>Of course, it didn’t last. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>me? posting twice in as many days? it's more likely than you'd think! this chapter just... fell out of me after the last one. i originally wanted the trial to be a chapter on it's own, until i realised that it would end up being ridiculously long. so i hope you don't mind it being split across multiple chapters. thank you for reading!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Symphony No. 9 in D Minor, Op. 125 "Choral": II. Molto vivace.</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Bedelia delivers some unfortunate news, and the trial continues.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>brief emetophobia tw for later on in this chapter!! i put a '~~' before and after the paragraph with the content so that you can easily skip it if you need to, so look out for that &lt;33</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Only an hour after court had adjourned for the day, Alana dutifully took Abigail home while Hannibal and Will were hailed back to Dr Du Maurier’s home office. They sat opposite Dr Du Maurier in her clinical living room, Chilton on the couch at the side like a spectator at a tennis match.</p><p>“I don’t understand why we have to do this,” Will said, strung out. The adrenaline from the day was wearing off, and a heavy ache was starting to set in its place. “Why does a psych eval matter if our defense is that she didn’t do it?”</p><p>Chilton’s jaw moved. “If the case goes well, we’ll never have to raise this issue.”</p><p>“Then why do this?”</p><p>Chilton turned his head away slightly. </p><p>“Why do this, Frederick?”</p><p>Dr Du Maurier answered, “Because Abigail looks guilty.”</p><p>They all turned to her. Will might have gasped, but he couldn’t be sure. He felt like he was standing two feet behind his body, watching all of this unfold in third person.</p><p>“That doesn’t mean she <em> is </em>guilty,” Chilton said, "but there is a lot of evidence against her. This is going to get a lot harder for us very soon. When it does, I want to be prepared.”</p><p>Dr Du Maurier took over from there. She spoke almost solely to Hannibal. Will had the odd feeling that he was intruding on one of their therapy sessions, like he and Chilton might as well have not been there. </p><p>“My report is simply a summary of my conclusions,” she began. “It is what I would say if I was called to testify, and what I think you could expect if this issue ever came up at trial. It isn’t a formal diagnosis; our concern is not therapy, it is the trial. </p><p>“With that said… over the course of my sessions with Abigail I have come to believe that she exhibits traits of reactive attachment disorder.”</p><p>She checked for Hannibal’s reaction. Despite himself, so did Will. </p><p>“Reactive attachment disorder is difficult to diagnose,” Hannibal said. His cold composure didn’t falter for a second. “It’s even harder to treat. There hasn’t been much study done.”</p><p>Dr Du Maurier nodded once. “The critical aspect of it is that it stems from a disruption of ordinary childhood emotional attachments in infancy.”</p><p>Unable to stay sat down any longer, Will crossed to the windows and looked out over the big asphalt driveway. The only thing that stopped him from running away was the knowledge that it would have been the second meeting of this nature that he’d walked out of, and he wouldn’t give Dr Du Maurier the satisfaction.</p><p>She regarded him for a moment, and then continued. “The running theory is that infants usually attach to a single, reliable caregiver, and from that secure base they explore the world. They know their basic emotional and physical needs will be met by that one person. When that reliable caregiver is not present, or changes, children may relate to others in inappropriate ways. It requires disruption in early caregiving. Mistreatment, neglect…”</p><p>“...Being orphaned."</p><p>Hannibal gave Will a look, perhaps knowing that he should have intervened. He didn’t. He seemed curious, almost, about what Will would do in the face of this new information.</p><p>“There is evidence in Abigail’s behavior of atypical attachment as an infant,” Dr Du Maurier said. She was agreeing with him, although she phrased it very carefully, so as to keep a sense of objectivity. “You reported that as a child she seemed guarded and hyper-vigilant, prone to both quiet manipulation and erratic, excessive anger.”</p><p>Garret Jacob Hobbs laughed at him in the reflection in the windows. Will turned away sharply, back into the room. </p><p>“You think she did it.”</p><p>“Will,” Chilton warned. </p><p>Will walked back through the center of the room and stood in front of his vacated chair, facing Dr Du Maurier.</p><p>“Don’t sit there and recite the DSM to me, Bedelia. Just say what you mean: you think she did it.”</p><p>Dr Du Maurier’s eyes narrowed a little, just for a second. “It isn't my job to tell you if she is or isn't innocent.”</p><p>“You’re saying she <em> might </em>have done it. You think it’s possible.”</p><p>She folded her hands very carefully in her lap. She was so aggressively calm, past a usual psychiatrist’s objectivity. No, she was much closer to Hannibal’s level when it came to controlling her reactions.</p><p>“I see certain traits and behaviors in Abigail that disturb me,” she said.</p><p>Will felt the words <em> disturb me </em> like an iron brand to his back. He scrubbed a hand down his face and blinked away the memories of psychiatrists, of friends and family and colleagues, who had called him <em> disturbing. </em> Who had looked him in the face and branded him <em> wrong. </em></p><p>“And it’s our fault? Because we’re such bad parents? Because we had the nerve, the — the cruelty to…”</p><p>The words choked him. None of them had any control over what had happened to Garret Jacob Hobbs and his wife that day. Adopting Abigail was the best decision he had ever made. He couldn’t imagine what would have come of her if they hadn’t. Her past haunted them regardless. It always would. The case that he solved too late. The life that was torn away from her.</p><p>He was aware that he was shaking. That he couldn't speak.</p><p>He was aware of Hannibal, behind him, gently telling him to sit down.</p><p>He was almost aware of hitting the floor.</p><p>Then, he wasn’t aware of anything.</p><p>When he came to, he felt like he’d been flayed alive. Every inch of his skin hurt to the touch. Something tried to crawl out of his head through his skull, and pushed searing pain down between his eyes. He let out a small, pathetic moan and turned his head. His cheek brushed against soft fabric.</p><p>“Will?”</p><p>A hand on his face. Warm. Familiar.</p><p>He opened his eyes, and his skull exploded. He shut them again and tried to turn further into Hannibal’s lap to block out the light in Dr Du Maurier’s living room.</p><p>Hannibal’s voice sounded distant, like he was talking from the surface of a pool that Will was at the bottom of. “Will, can you hear me? You’ve had a mild seizure."</p><p>It didn’t <em> feel </em>fucking mild. He tried to express this sentiment, and got as far as a few grumbled half-syllables. </p><p>Hannibal chuckled a little, relieved. “There you are.”</p><p> </p><p>The ambulance really was unnecessary. </p><p>As hard as Will tried to argue this case, Hannibal was having none of it. He kept a firm grip on Will’s hand as he was lifted onto a stretcher, and clambered into the ambulance alongside him. Though he had a stern resolve in the face of the paramedics, there was an unmistakable sense of relief behind his eyes whenever Will complained about the attention.</p><p>He was given his own room at Johns Hopkins, which was most definitely Hannibal’s doing. Will couldn’t even find it in himself to complain about it as he sank back into the thin mattress. While he dozed, Hannibal answered the doctor’s extensive questions about his medical history. He seemed to know more than Will would have; he wouldn’t have been surprised if he kept his medical records on file in their house.</p><p>He made a note to ask him about that, when he didn’t feel like his brain was on fire.</p><p>They ran as many tests as Will thought physically possible, gave him a prescription for the pain and reluctantly let him go when they determined that he wasn’t at immediate risk of another seizure. </p><p>It was dark by the time they got home. Alana, who had come to pick them up, allowed him to lean heavily on her up the gravel path to the front door. She passed him off to Hannibal when they reached the threshold, and Abigail met them there.</p><p>She threw her arms around him, careful not to jostle him too much. He was still relying on Hannibal to stand.</p><p>“I’m so happy you’re okay,” she said.</p><p>“I’m okay, guppy.” He kissed her clumsily on the side of the head. “Better now.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did you attempt to find the cause of this seizure? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Not immediately. I didn’t want anything to interrupt the trial. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: The trial could have gone on without you present. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. It couldn’t have. I wouldn’t have let Abigail be in court alone. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Your husband would have been there. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [The witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: How did he handle the pressure of the trial? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: None of us handled it well. You don’t understand what this sort of pressure is like, Jack. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: You were clearly affected by it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Of course I was. I was terrified. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Terrified because you were considering the possibility Abigail might be guilty? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. I was terrified the jury might convict her whether she was guilty or not. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: It hadn’t crossed your mind that Abigail might have actually done it? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Not once? For a single second? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Not once. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: “Confirmation bias”, is that the term we’re looking for here? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Fuck you, Jack. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Don’t lose your temper, Mr Graham. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: You’ve never seen me lose my temper. Fuck you. Self-righteous prick. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Let’s continue. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Fevered, aching exhaustion nipped at the front of his skull. It was nothing like the pain from earlier — which had subsided somewhat with the painkillers — but it burrowed beneath his brow and irritated him regardless. He would have thought that the day’s events would have worn him out enough that his body would let him sleep, but he lay awake into the early hours.</p><p>Rain pattered at the window. The ceiling seemed to ripple like murky water. Part of him was afraid to sleep, he thought, in case he was visited by the merry band of ghosts that haunted his subconscious. In case he chased them into the street again.</p><p>A pale strip of light cut through the darkness. He lifted his head. Abigail stood tentatively in their doorway, looking younger than ever in her pajamas and mussed hair.</p><p>He raised a finger to his lips and gestured to Hannibal. She nodded, and shut the door softly behind her. He felt her, eventually, grab his knee through the comforter, and sat up to meet her halfway.</p><p>“I can’t sleep,” she whispered. “I know it’s embarrassing, but…”</p><p>“It’s not embarrassing. Come on, I can’t sleep either.”</p><p>He carefully got out of bed, feet cold against the wooden floor, and lifted the comforter. She slipped underneath it, moving very carefully, and he lay back down after her, sandwiching her between him and Hannibal.</p><p>There was some strategic maneuvering needed to make it comfortable for them both, but eventually they settled. He ran a hand through her hair and felt her smile against his palm. </p><p>“I’m sorry. I haven’t done this since I was a kid,” she whispered.</p><p>“Never apologize for this,” he whispered back. “You don’t have to apologize for needing us.”</p><p>The bed shifted as Hannibal turned over and joined them in semi-consciousness. He blinked sleepily, barely visible in the darkness, and reached out for Abigail. More maneuvering, and they were all effectively slotted together. Abigail safe between them. </p><p>Hannibal didn’t say anything, but after a moment he started singing softly. Despite himself, despite knowing that it was for Abigail’s benefit, Will shut his eyes and let his shaky voice lull him into sleep.</p><p> </p><p>Day four of the trial, Will sat on the bench with his hands in his lap and watched Beverly take the stand.</p><p>She wore a neat navy dress and a sensible silver necklace that rested on her prominent clavicle. It was a far cry away from her typical uniform – her cropped leather jacket or lab coat – although she wore the same sharp expression that she adopted when stooped over a body. </p><p>For the prosecution, the fact that she was Will’s coworker and friend made her a confusing sort of witness. She was valuable, but easily biased. </p><p>“How long have you been employed by the FBI, Ms Katz?” Brauner asked, hands in his pockets. He did not have the stance of a man effectively walking through a prosecutorial minefield.</p><p>“Eight years.”</p><p>“And what is your current assignment?”</p><p>“I’m assigned to the Behavioral Analysis Unit. I specialize in fiber analysis.”</p><p>“September 23, 2018. What happened on that date?”</p><p>“Agent Crawford called me at about eight-thirty A.M informing me that there had been a homicide in Wolf Trap, Virginia. He believed that it was related to the ongoing Chesapeake Ripper investigation.”</p><p>“But it wasn’t?”</p><p>“I couldn’t say that with any certainty.”</p><p>Brauner narrowed his eyes. Re-calculating.</p><p>“Describe the scene when you first arrived. Who was there?”</p><p>“It was a typical crime scene,” she said. “Local law enforcement had secured the area. Agents Crawford and Graham met me there.”</p><p>“Mr Graham was already at the scene?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“What was he doing?”</p><p>Chilton rose out of his chair a few inches, “Objection.”</p><p>Judge Davies clicked his gavel. “Overruled. Continue, Mr Brauner.”</p><p>“What was he doing at the scene?”</p><p>“He was conducting a recreation exercise: walking through the killer's movements at the scene to build a basis for our psychological profile.”</p><p>“And this was his <em> method, </em>wasn’t it?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Do you understand why he did this?”</p><p>“Objection.”</p><p>“Overruled. Sit down, Mr Chilton.”</p><p>Beverly rolled her lips. “He interprets the evidence to reconstruct the actions of the killer, allowing us to understand more about them.” </p><p>“I’m sorry, Ms Katz, I’m confused. He <em> interprets the evidence? </em> Couldn’t that be called <em> guesswork?” </em></p><p>“It isn’t guesswork. High empathy allows him to reconstruct the killer’s thinking. He has helped us solve countless cases this way.”</p><p>“High empathy…” Brauner turned to the jury with his hands out in front of him, palms facing upwards. “High empathy... Ms Katz, how would you say this condition affects Mr Graham’s social skills?”</p><p>Beverly gaped. Chilton rose with such force he nearly knocked the table over.</p><p>“Objection! Who is on trial here, Your Honor?”</p><p>"Sustained." Judge Davies turned on Chilton. "But remember where you are, Mr Chilton.”</p><p>Chilton lowered himself back into his chair, smacked on the wrist. Brauner visibly tried not to look smug, carefully re-assessing his line of questioning before he turned back to Beverly.</p><p>“At some point did you become aware of a website called the<em>  Cutting Room?” </em></p><p>“Yes. It was sent into the FBI tip line by an anonymous source.”</p><p>The Cutting Room. He hadn’t heard of it before. He looked at Hannibal, knowing that he would find no surprise on his face. He watched the proceedings in the way he might have watched the morning news on a slow day.</p><p>“Did you investigate this website?” Brauner asked.</p><p>She nodded. “We did. It’s a site where people post violent fantasy stories.”</p><p>“Did you find a story that related to this case?”</p><p>“We did. We found a story that described what we think was the murder incident, from the unsub’s point of view.”</p><p>“Were you able to confirm the identity of the author?”</p><p>“No, but we were able to determine the ISP of the computer it was originally uploaded from. It originated from the wireless connection at the local library. We couldn’t trace it any further.”</p><p>“So, you had no idea who wrote this story?”</p><p>She caught her lower lip between her teeth.</p><p>“The anonymous tip came with a note. Whoever sent it in believed that Abigail had written it.”</p><p>Unlike the previous day, Hannibal didn’t make any move to comfort Will at this new development. No brush of his hand. Not even a look. They were hotly aware of the news camera trained on them, searching for some sort of a reaction. As if they would have <em> known </em>this. As if they’d been her co-authors.</p><p>“What was it about the story that made it so compelling, that convinced you only the murderer could have written it?”</p><p>“Every detail was there,” she said. “It described the exact angle of the knife wound that killed the victim. The nature of the wound wasn’t public information, and the story very specifically compared it to the cut used by big game hunters. With this detail, along with the identification of a partial print found on the victim’s collar, we had probable cause to make an arrest.”</p><p>“You didn’t inform Mr Graham of this, even though he was working the case?”</p><p>“No, we didn’t. He splits his time between the BAU and the Academy, and he was giving a lecture that morning.”</p><p>“So what <em> did </em> you do?”</p><p>“We got a warrant, and we hit the house.”</p><p>“What did you find?”</p><p>“Nothing.”</p><p>“Did you take the defendant’s computer?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“What sort of computer was it?”</p><p>“A MacBook. It was silver, covered in stickers.”</p><p>“Did you have the computer searched by specialists trained in uncovering material from hard drives?”</p><p>“Yes. They were not able to find anything incriminating. There was no evidence of any encryption software or recently deleted files, either."</p><p>Brauner placed a hand on the rail of the jury box. He would have crawled right over it and asked his questions from inside of it, if he could. </p><p>“Tell me, Ms Katz, did this story line up with what Mr Graham <em> reconstructed of the killer’s thinking?” </em></p><p>Will closed his eyes. He didn’t want to see the reactions of the court, the jury, of Hannibal beside him or Beverly on the stand.</p><p>“Yes,” she said, very quietly.</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>She spoke louder, “I said yes. It lined up, but that doesn’t mean—”</p><p>“Thank you, Ms Katz.” Brauner turned to Judge Davies. “No further questions.”</p><p> </p><p>~~ </p><p>The door nearly took a chunk of plaster out of the courtroom's bathroom wall when Will pushed it open. He slammed into the first cubicle that he came to, and skidded to his knees on the linoleum. He hunched over the toilet bowl and heaved, over and over until his stomach was empty. Anxiety still thrummed at the base of his torso and fizzed up the back of his neck, even when the vomiting subsided. </p><p>~~</p><p>A hand pressed between his shoulder blades. He moved backwards, eyes closed, until he hit Hannibal’s chest. Hannibal dropped to the floor and pulled him fully into his lap, chin tucked over the top of his head. It must have been more than uncomfortable for him to be sat on the germ-ridden floor, but Will couldn’t bring himself to care about their suits right now.</p><p>“They’re using me against her,” he said, voice hoarse.</p><p>Hannibal pushed a hand through his hair and didn’t respond.</p><p>The door opened again, and a pair of sharp black high heels crossed into his eyeline. </p><p>Alana handed something to Hannibal. “Is he okay?” </p><p>The lip of a plastic bottle touched his lips. The relief of the cold water on his unsteady stomach was enough to distract him from how useless he felt, relying on Hannibal to gently tip the bottle into his mouth.</p><p><em> “He’s </em>fine,” Will replied, eventually. “I just didn’t know they were going to do… that.”</p><p>He took the bottle from Hannibal and pushed himself away to lean against the opposite side of the stall. Hannibal didn’t move. He brought one hand up to stroke circles into Will’s ankle. Will pushed his hair out of his face and finished off the water.</p><p>“Brauner has never claimed to play fair,” Alana sighed. As a forensic psychiatrist, she’d spent a lot of time opposite Leonard Brauner in the courtroom. She crossed her arms, and tapped her toe incessantly against the floor. “He shouldn’t have gone that route; you’re not the one on trial.”</p><p>Will rolled his head back against the stall. </p><p>“I am. We all are.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>chapter 10 baby!! i basically have the next two chapters written, just some final edits to do, so updates will be continuing to come at you hard and fast. we're in the home stretch now! thank you so much for your continued support on these new chapters, i wouldn't be getting these out so fast if it wasn't for your lovely comments keeping me going &lt;3</p><p>((also note: i realised that i'd accidentally referred to abigail as 'abigail hobbs' a couple times in the previous chapters, so i've changed that to 'abigail lecter-graham'. sorry if that caused any confusion! <i>this</i> is why we use a beta, friends))</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Preludes, Op. 23: No. 5 in G Minor: Alla marcia</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will and Beverly stage an investigation of their own, and there's a development in the trial.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“What’s the motive?” Beverly asked.</p><p>She kept her place in the Nicholas Boyle file with one fingertip. Her other hand came up in front of her mouth, the polite gesture of somebody who had been berated for speaking with her mouth full one too many times as a child.</p><p>Will hadn’t had takeout for years, because of Hannibal’s vehement aversion to it. While it was true the noodles were nowhere near what Hannibal would have made, there was something delightfully normal about junk food. No nutritional value, but the perfect thing to eat while sitting on the floor of Beverly’s apartment, piecing together Nicholas Boyle’s demise.</p><p>“There has to be a motive,” Beverly said, at his look. “Why else would they kill the easiest suspect?”</p><p>Will placed his cardboard container of noodles down and picked up one of the crime scene photos. The entire case was spread out on the bright rug between them like a morbid mosaic. Nicholas Boyle stared back at him. His killer hadn’t closed his eyes before burying him. </p><p>“I kill the prime suspect in the case with the same knife that I used to kill Marissa Schurr, on the same day that someone else is arrested for her murder...” he said. “I do it because... because…”</p><p>“I’m covering my tracks." </p><p>A spark lit in her eyes, the kind that usually only came with an epiphany. She leaned over and grabbed a piece of paper from next to his knee: a sketch, with a rough reconstruction of the knife based on the proportions of Marissa Schurr’s fatal wound. </p><p>“I use the same knife, the same technique. The only difference is that I don’t display Nicholas Boyle... because I don’t have time.”</p><p>Will thought of the knife, buried somewhere in Hannibal’s office, and wondered how well it would have matched the reconstructed weapon.</p><p>“I have to kill him and bury him before they find Abigail,” he said. “But how do I know they haven’t arrested her already?”</p><p>Her eyes flicked over the evidence between them, and eventually landed on a map of the Wolf Trap nature reserve. She swapped out the photo in her hand for the map, and turned it to him. </p><p>“I live near the park. The middle school is right next to it; if I was around, I could have seen her hiding there. The FBI were nowhere near, so I knew I had time.”</p><p>
  <em> I see Abigail hiding near the middle school. I know that I have a limited window before she is found. I have to move fast, if I want to do this right.  </em>
</p><p>“I want to frame her,” he said. “But why?”</p><p>She shrugged. “Two murders are more damning than one. Whoever it was wants her put away for a very long time, for whatever reason... It must be the same person who sent in the tip about the Cutting Room. They probably wrote the damn thing, too. <em> Jesus…” </em></p><p>A photo of Marissa Schurr stared up at him from the floor. Her unseeing eyes, pale skin that had once been rosy and full of life, pin-straight dark hair that fell just over her shoulders and sat tucked behind her ears. </p><p>The resemblance to Abigail was near uncanny. As children, they were often mistaken for sisters. That was what Martha Schurr hated the most: that her daughter was mistaken to be Will’s child. She hadn’t wanted them to be so closely associated. Now, nobody would mention Marissa Schurr without the undercurrent of Abigail. They were forever bonded. </p><p>“What if I’d wanted to kill Abigail?”</p><p>Noodles dangled, uneaten, from the chopsticks that paused halfway to Beverly’s mouth. She placed them in the cardboard take-out container and slowly put it down in front of her. </p><p>“I got the wrong girl,” she said. “I meant to kill Abigail and I failed, so I frame her instead.”</p><p>Will stared at Marissa Schurr. A sick feeling washed over him. He thought of Clark Ingram, and knew he was right.</p><p>“If I can’t have her, nobody can.”</p><p> </p><p>He had gone to Beverly’s apartment late, after court adjourned, and it was dark outside when he finally left. There were no empty spaces in the parking lot behind the building, so he’d parked across the street out front. He headed down the front steps, keys swinging in his hand, and stopped just short of the front gate.</p><p>There, directly in front of the entrance, was the car.</p><p>It had been dark last time he’d seen it, but it was definitely the same black sedan. Tinted windows obscured his view of the driver, and the angle didn’t allow him to see through the windshield. </p><p>He tracked back through his steps.</p><p>How did he get here?</p><p>Court. Home. He’d told Hannibal that he was visiting Margot and Alana, to thank them for taking care of Abigail when he’d been in hospital. Beverly lived across the city, it had taken him an hour to get there. They ordered takeout and built the case from the ground up. He bid her goodbye and headed downstairs. She reminded him that the parking lot was on the ‘ground’ floor, but to get to street-level he had to press the button below it: <em> SL. </em></p><p>He wasn’t dreaming. Probably.</p><p>The car wouldn’t magically disappear, or speed at him this time. Probably.</p><p>He was cautious in his approach still, not quite as prepared to physically assault whoever was in the driver’s seat as he had been a few nights ago. Unable to see whether anyone was even in the car, he rapped on the window with his keys.</p><p>With a buzz, the window rolled down. Freddie Lounds slipped her large sunglasses off her nose.</p><p>“That took you long enough. Are you sure you’re safe to drive?”</p><p>“I didn’t drink,” he said. “What are you doing here, Freddie? I could have you arrested for stalking. Probably harassment, too.”</p><p>She shook her head. “You wouldn’t want to do that, now, would you? Not when I’m finally useful to you. Get in.”</p><p>“Give me your keys.”</p><p>She regarded his outstretched hand for a moment. “Seriously? I’m not gonna kidnap you, Graham. Frankly, I think <em> I’m </em>the one at risk here.”</p><p>“Keys.”</p><p>The car unlocked with a flash of the headlights and a <em> beep, </em>and she resignedly dropped the keys into his hand. He tucked them into his pocket as he rounded the car and slid in on the passenger side. </p><p>Once he’d shut the door, she slipped her sunglasses back on.</p><p>“There’s a folder in the glove compartment.”</p><p>He blinked at her. She stared out of the windshield innocuously. Apparently, she didn’t care that this was the shoddiest and most cliché handover in existence. </p><p>Realising that he wasn’t going to get an explanation otherwise, he popped the glove compartment open. It contained neat stacks of journals, a few spare packs of ballpoint pens and a small tape recorder that appeared to be turned off. Beside all that sat the manila folder that she promised.</p><p>“Open it.”</p><p>“This is ridiculous. Even for you. Just for the record.”</p><p>She fixed him with a look, clear even behind her large glasses. He blew a huff of air out of his mouth and opened the file.</p><p>The photos were grainy at best, screen-grabbed and printed from an old CCTV camera. They showed a parking lot, which upon closer inspection was clearly the parking lot outside Clark Ingram’s apartment. On the left hand side, the concrete melted into trees and shrubs.</p><p>A red circle pointed out a figure in the first photograph. Small in stature, dark hair, crossing into the parking lot from a blind spot between the apartment buildings. The next frame showed more of her face, circled again, and though it was grainy she was instantly recognizable; her face had been burned into Will’s retinas for months. Marissa Schurr.</p><p>Marissa crossed through the parking lot three times a week to get home from her babysitting job on the other side of town. On the evening of September 22nd, she had never arrived home. Nobody knew whether she’d taken her normal route. These confirmed that she had. They were even timestamped:</p><p>
  <b>09 - 22 - 18 | 11:41:09 PM</b>
</p><p>The next one showed another person crossing into the frame, having emerged from one of the buildings. He crossed between the cars, very blatantly pursuing her. Marissa entered the park and disappeared from view. The next one was zoomed in. The man looked directly into the camera. </p><p>Will nearly dropped the file. Clark Ingram’s not-quite handsome face was unmistakable. </p><p> </p><p>Chilton’s eyes flashed like he’d won the lottery when Will presented him the photographs.</p><p>“Where in the world did you get these?” he asked, glasses perched on the end of his nose.</p><p>Will glanced at Hannibal, stood stoically behind Abigail’s chair with one hand on her shoulder. </p><p>“An anonymous source.”</p><p>Hannibal glanced down thoughtfully. A spark of guilt shot through Will’s stomach. He looked back at Chilton, who looked positively elated at the entire affair.</p><p>Later that day, they sat in a skeletal courtroom and watched Chilton propose the new evidence. There was no jury, no news camera, and the gallery was empty besides Will and Hannibal, who were required to be there as Abigail’s legal guardians. </p><p>Brauner stood, eventually, and interrupted Chilton’s spiel. </p><p>“Objection. Clark Ingram has an alibi.”</p><p>“And now we have evidence that places him at the scene.”</p><p>“Circumstantial evidence that you received from an <em> anonymous source </em> a week into trial, when it’s becoming increasingly clearer that you are not going to win this. It’s very convenient, don’t you think?”</p><p>“Are you questioning my integrity?”</p><p>Judge Davies banged his gavel three times in quick succession. </p><p>“Please! This petty squabbling will not get us anywhere. Mr Chilton, I appreciate that this evidence may have seemed like a miracle, but it’s simply not enough. I’m ruling this defense inadmissible. All previous testimony on this matter will be stricken from the record. You two are lucky this is not being recorded, for your own reputations.”</p><p>A click of the gavel, and that was that.</p><p> </p><p>Will had become accustomed to being the only one awake in the early hours. Hannibal had always been an early riser, but Will had been waking up at five o’clock or earlier for weeks. He had to get out of bed as soon as he woke up, scared of succumbing to dreams if he dozed off.</p><p>He let the dogs out into the garden and filled their respective bowls with food and water. He considered taking them out before they were scheduled to be back in court. Yesterday’s setback was barely a rift in the grand scheme of things, and the trial would trundle on.</p><p>It was coming up on seven when there was a knock at the front door. He could hear Hannibal moving around upstairs, and considered fetching him for backup until he realised it was probably just the mailman doing an early round and answered it himself.</p><p>He was not expecting to see Jack Crawford on their front step.</p><p>“Morning, Will,” he said amicably, as if he hadn’t testified against them earlier that week.</p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>“I have some questions.” Jack’s gaze slid over Will’s shoulder. “For all of you.”</p><p>Will glanced behind him. Hannibal lingered in the doorway at the end of the hall, one of two entrances to the kitchen. He looked soft in faded pajama pants and old crimson sweater, the one with the stretched cuffs and collar from Will’s hands when their relationship had centered around fevered nights of pushing each other’s limits. </p><p>He would never usually let anyone other than Will and Abigail see him sleep-mussed, but he didn’t seem altogether phased about Jack being there. </p><p>“Good morning, Jack,” he said, courteous as ever.</p><p>“Morning, Doctor Lecter,” Jack replied. He glanced at Will again. “Please, may I come in?”</p><p>Will turned into the house, leaving Jack to grab the heavy door before it shut on him.</p><p>They settled themselves at the dining table, and Hannibal poured them fresh coffee from the cafetiere while Will tried not to glare holes into Jack’s skull. </p><p>“How is your wife?” Hannibal asked cordially. “I heard about her illness. It’s unfortunate.”</p><p>Jack picked up the freshly-poured coffee. “She’s okay for now. I’ve never known anything to phase her, not even cancer.”</p><p>He spoke lightly, as if it was old times again. Like he wasn’t here purely on business, observing how they moved around the space and each other, how the trial had worn them down. </p><p>“You’re not here to talk about your wife,” Will said. </p><p>Jack tipped his head modestly, caught out. </p><p>“No, I’m not.” He placed his mug down. “I came here to ask where Abigail was last night.”</p><p>Hannibal hovered halfway between sitting and standing at the head of the table. It was a momentary falter, less than a half-second before he sat down.</p><p>“Why?” Will asked. When Jack didn’t answer, he continued. “Has there been another murder?”</p><p>Jack looked between them. </p><p>“Judge Davies’ body was found in the courtroom this morning. We believe the same person who killed him killed Marissa Schurr.”</p><p>“And you think Abigail did it?”</p><p>Jack attempted to share a look with Hannibal, a <em> calm your husband down </em>look. Hannibal did not take the bait, regarding Will with an easy glance over the rim of his coffee mug.</p><p>“We have to rule her out as a suspect,” Jack said. “Can you account for her whereabouts last night?”</p><p>“She was here,” Will said sharply. </p><p>“All night?”</p><p>“All night.”</p><p>“Can you be sure?”</p><p>“Jack, for fuck’s sake…”</p><p>Hannibal stepped in, then. “She has been having trouble sleeping since the trial began, so she slept in our bed last night. It would have been impossible for her to leave and return without waking one of us. I’m a particularly light sleeper.”</p><p>“I thought as much,” Jack sighed, with something like relief. </p><p>He glanced down at the table with the trepidation of a man whose outlook on a situation had suddenly and radically changed. </p><p>“The trial will obviously be suspended while we investigate Judge Davies’ murder. Depending on the outcome of that investigation, there may be no reason for the trial to continue. This might be over for you soon.”</p><p>It seemed uncomfortable for him to say it. Will knew that he was probably under strict orders to <em> not </em>say that sort of thing, to avoid giving them false hope. To even suggest that Abigail could be cleared was an admission: he knew that she was innocent. Beyond reasonable doubt.</p><p> </p><p>The FBI weren’t going to make the same mistake twice. No stone was to be left unturned in the Judge Davies investigation. Anyone who had been near the courtroom the day that he was murdered would be investigated thoroughly, starting with Will and Hannibal.</p><p>Entering the lab as a suspect was odd compared to entering as an agent. It gave him a new perspective on the clinical blankness, the faceless agents milling amicably around dead bodies and evidence. It felt infinitesimally different. Dimmed, somehow.</p><p>While Hannibal went into another room for Price and Zeller to take DNA samples and fingerprints, Will glanced at the evidence board that displayed photos from Judge Davies’ crime scene.</p><p>Not only was he killed and displayed like Marissa Schurr, blood dripping to the floor from his throat wound, but a scrap of his judicial robe had been torn away and tied around his eyes. In his hands, which had been tied into the ropes that suspended him from the ceiling, he held two lumps of meat.</p><p>A glance at the glass freezer storage across the lab confirmed what they were.</p><p>His brain, and his heart.</p><p>Beverly turned the board around.</p><p>“Sorry, Will. You can’t…”</p><p>“Justice is blind,” he said, "it's also mindless and heartless.”</p><p>“Will. You can’t help us, not with this one. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“You think the killer escalated?” </p><p>She faltered. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips.</p><p>“Yeah. I’d say it’s an escalation, if it’s the same killer.”</p><p>“It’s not.”</p><p>“It’s not the same killer?” She lowered her voice. “Will, I know I shouldn’t be saying this to you but, as a friend, you don’t want to be saying that right now—”</p><p>“It’s the same killer,” Will said. “But it’s not an escalation; he’s done this before. Beverly, look at it. He cut out the judge’s heart and his brain and put them in his hands.”</p><p>Realization dawned on her face. She checked over her shoulder for eavesdropping agents and kept her voice low.</p><p>“Are you saying the Chesapeake Ripper killed Judge Davies?”</p><p>“And Nicholas Boyle.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>It was a ridiculous question. Had the Ripper ever needed a <em> why? </em></p><p>“It’s theater. That’s what it’s been this whole time, this whole thing.”</p><p>The door to the testing room opened, and Hannibal followed Zeller out, Price close behind to pull the door shut. </p><p>“How long will you have our suits?” Hannibal asked.</p><p>Beverly easily scrubbed the confusion and concern from her face and crossed the lab to her station. A rack of clear plastic garment bags preserved their clothes, ready to be tested for loose fibers that nobody but she could find and analyse. She touched one of them with the end of her pen.</p><p>“You might want to think about supplementing your wardrobe,” she said.</p><p>Hannibal opened his mouth. Will raised one finger.</p><p>“Don’t even think about it. You’re not getting me to a tailor.”</p><p>“But you would be such an adorable pin cushion, dear.” </p><p>He got an arm around Will’s waist, in a comedic display of affection. It was over-dramatic. Acting.</p><p>Theater.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>theater kid hannibal confirmed</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Concerto No. 4, in F Minor, Op. 8 L\’inverno: II. Largo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will gets a call.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>the mature rating comes into play this chapter. fair warning.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>As with every miracle, it came on an anticlimax.</p><p>Will’s phone rang at five-thirty in the morning. Conditioned to receive emergency calls in the early hours after years of working for a man who never slept, Will was clear and awake when he answered it.</p><p>“Graham,” he said automatically.</p><p>“It’s over.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“It’s over, Will,” Jack said. “He confessed.”</p><p>Will pushed himself to sit. Hannibal blinked awake beside him, hair spread out on the pillowcase when he rolled onto his back and yawned. </p><p>“Who?”</p><p>“Ingram. He was found hanging in his apartment late last night. He left a note with a full confession to the murders of Marissa Schurr, Nicholas Boyle and Judge Davies. Z confirmed the handwriting, and it’s definitely his. It’s over.”</p><p>Hannibal rubbed one hand over Will’s back. He couldn’t hear Jack’s end of the conversation; Will must have looked more disturbed than relieved. He caught Hannibal’s hand in his and held it in his lap.</p><p>“It’s too convenient,” he said, to Jack. “Doesn’t it feel too convenient?”</p><p>“Call your lawyer, Will.”</p><p>He kept the phone to his ear long after the line went dead. Eventually, he dropped it onto the floor. </p><p>Hannibal watched him tentatively, bracing himself for bad news. A Pavlovian fear response to an out-of-the-blue phone call.</p><p>“It’s over,” Will said. “Ingram confessed. To everything.”</p><p>There was a moment of total, aching silence before something burst in Hannibal’s expression and Will was on his back on the mattress. They shared wet, relieved kisses and breathed like they’d run from one end of the earth to the other. Will let himself feel relieved instead of skeptical. It was over. It was really, truly over.</p><p>Abigail cried when they told her the news. She collapsed to the floor between the kitchen island and the counter and sobbed openly into her hands. They joined her there, on their knees, heads bumping together and arms around shoulders. Anxiety from months of hell all compounded into one, poignant moment. </p><p>If Will believed in God, he would have called this a miracle. </p><p>They dressed in their trial clothes, the first ones to be processed and released from the lab, and buzzed around each other until it was time to drive to the courthouse. Abigail put the news on the TV and Hannibal sat beside her with his laptop on his knee, Tattlecrime open to wait for a mention of Ingram’s suicide. It hadn’t been reported on the news yet, but Freddie Lounds would undoubtedly have the scoop first.</p><p> </p><p>As it turned out, Chilton didn’t even have to move for a dismissal. Leonard Brauner filed a nol pros — an announcement of the government’s decision to drop the charges — before the judge even took the bench. </p><p>The new judge, a lively woman who was much younger and kinder than Judge Davies had been, read over the nol pros with a theatrical flourish, and gestured for Abigail to stand.</p><p>“Ms Lecter-Graham, I can tell from your face, and your parents’ faces, that you’ve already heard the news. Let me be the first to tell you the words I’m sure you’ve longed to hear: Abigail, you are a free and innocent woman.”</p><p>A cheer erupted from the courtroom. Will found himself smiling giddily. Beside him, Hannibal let out a surprising <em> whoop! </em> of celebration and grabbed his hand, for once not to provide comfort, but out of pure elation. </p><p>The judge banged her gavel with an indulgent smile. Even when the ruckus lowered, there was a fizzing sense of joy in the courtroom as the clerk read out, monotone:</p><p>“Abigail Lecter-Graham, in the matter of indictment number oh-one-dash-oh-nine-eight-one, the Commonwealth having nolle prosequi the within indictment, it is ordered by the court that you be discharged of this indictment and go without day insofar as this indictment is concerned. The bail previously posted may be returned to the surety. Case dismissed.”</p><p><em> Case dismissed. </em>It was officially over.</p><p>With permission from Chilton, Abigail leaned over the bar to hug Will. He held her as tight as he could for a long moment before passing her off to Hannibal, who pressed his hand to the back of her head and whispered to her.</p><p>Will stepped around them and shook Chilton’s hand. </p><p>“Thank you, Frederick,” he said sincerely.</p><p>“It’s not me you have to thank,” Chilton said, although he preened a little at the praise. “Thank Clark Ingram. That bastard.”</p><p>“Right,” Will agreed. </p><p><em> That bastard, </em> indeed.</p><p>Leonard Brauner had left his post and lingered near the defense table, unsure whether or not to approach. Will regarded him, opened out his expression, and extended a hand over the bar. The lawyer came forward and shook it.</p><p>“Congratulations, Mr Graham,” he said. It sounded, almost, like an apology. He looked over Will’s shoulder, at where Abigail and Hannibal were talking excitedly to Chilton. “You’ve got a really beautiful family. I’m glad you won, in the end.”</p><p>“We didn’t win,” Will said, truthfully. “We wouldn’t have, I don’t think. You’re a good lawyer.”</p><p>Brauner smiled, and it wasn’t the wiry, smug thing he wore in the courtroom, but a genuine curve that creased his eyes at the corners. </p><p>“Please, extend my congratulations to Abigail.”</p><p>With that, he was gone. Will didn’t mind admitting that he was glad they would never see each other again.</p><p>Reporters crowded in front of the court when they left, though they were now jostling them with congratulations and scrambling over each other to get the best angle for the morning shows. They ended up nearly running down the street, skidding to a halt around the Bentley laughing breathlessly and clutching at each other. Giddy and free. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>December 20th, 2018</b>
</p><p>Tokyo International Airport was beautiful, as far as airports went. The three hour car ride to Yuzawa was not so much. But, eventually, Will stood on a balcony overlooking the steady incline of Mount Naeba, nothing but eight feet of snow and the morning sun for miles, and let the steam from his coffee warm his face.</p><p>There was a certain glamour in leaving the country, he thought. But he knew full well that moving permanently was not a viable option. Hannibal didn’t belong anywhere. Will’s home was wherever Hannibal was. But Abigail had only ever known Virginia. No matter what had happened, or how many bad feelings lingered in Wolf Trap, they couldn’t upend her life so drastically. At least, not now. What she needed from here on out was stability.</p><p>So, a vacation would have to do. </p><p>The cabin that Hannibal had found for them was maybe the most beautiful place Will had ever seen. It had a gated entrance, a beautiful view, and was far enough away from the mountain that they couldn’t hear the skiers from the distant resorts. It was the perfect place to hole up, lick their wounds and start to heal.</p><p>His phone rang. There had been a ‘no technology’ rule until they’d realised that Hannibal was still technically a psychiatrist, and Will was still technically an FBI agent, and Alana would have to get hold of them if there was an issue with the dogs. </p><p>The quilt he’d brought out with him nearly slipped off his shoulders as he maneuvered his one tether to reality out of his pocket.</p><p>“Graham,” he answered.</p><p>“How’s paradise?” Beverly asked.</p><p>Abigail had said almost the same thing when they’d first arrived, gloved hands to her face: <em> “It’s paradise!” </em></p><p>He told Beverly as much, and she laughed lightly. </p><p>“I’m glad she’s enjoying it. If anyone deserves a vacation, it’s that kid.”</p><p>He agreed, but that wasn’t a topic he wanted to broach right now. </p><p>“How’s fiber analysis?” he asked instead.</p><p>“I’m going to pretend you’re actually interested and say that fiber analysis is thrilling, as always. Thank you.”</p><p>The glass door behind him clicked open, and Hannibal shuffled out onto the balcony. His breath came out in wisps of smoke. Will raised one finger from the handle of his mug — <em>I’ll only be a second —</em> and Hannibal just tipped his head in understanding. Though he was wearing a thick robe, he came up and wrapped his arms around Will’s middle for warmth.</p><p>“Jack’s antsy,” Beverly continued. “I think he’s waiting for you to decide you want to come back; he keeps looking at the door like you’re gonna walk in. It’s kind of sad.”</p><p>“I don’t think I’m ready for that yet,” Will said, and leaned back. Hannibal pressed his cold nose to the back of his neck. “We still have to get Abigail through this next part.”</p><p>“Of course. You need to spend time with your family. I’ll hold down the fort here and try not to kill anyone while I’m at it— <em>Z, if you come near me with that thing I swear to god...” </em></p><p>Hannibal pushed his hands into the gap at the front of the quilt and up under Will’s sweatshirt. His palms were cold — but not shockingly so — against his bare skin. Will arched back against him, just a little.</p><p>“You’re a saint.”</p><p>“I know.” She paused. “Is Hannibal there right now? You’ve gone suspiciously quiet.”</p><p>“I’ll call you back?”</p><p>“Don’t worry about it. Go get laid.”</p><p>“Bye, Bev.”</p><p>“Use protection!”</p><p>He chuckled as he hung up and tucked his phone away. Hannibal shifted somehow closer against his back. </p><p>“Was that Ms Katz?”</p><p>“Yeah. She said Jack misses me, and that fiber analysis is awesome. Your hands are cold.”</p><p>Hannibal hummed against his neck. “And you are warm.”</p><p>His palms swept across Will’s stomach and chest until they were no longer cold, or at least until Will acclimatized to the temperature difference. He found Will’s nipple with the pad of his thumb and rubbed it, pressing in. Will jolted, and blindly grabbed behind him until he found Hannibal’s waist.</p><p>“Abigail will hear—”</p><p>Hannibal shushed him. “She’s asleep. I checked.”</p><p>“Creeper — <em>oh —</em> do that again.”</p><p>He felt Hannibal’s smirk against his throat. “I thought I was a creeper?”</p><p>“You’re a very — <em>huh —</em> a very sexy one. It’s a — <em>hm —</em> a dying art form, I think — <em>oh, god—</em>”</p><p>Hannibal turned him, and pushed him back against the glass-and-wood railing of the balcony. A wicked grin on his face as he tugged at the tie at the waistband of Will’s sweatpants.</p><p>“Will, shut up.”</p><p>Will had a clever response lined up, he <em> swore </em>he did, but then Hannibal dropped to his knees on the deck and whatever had been on the tip of his tongue was punched out of him. Cold air rushed in when Hannibal shucked his sweatpants down off his waist, and Will got a fistful of his hair.</p><p><em> “Cold!” </em>he hissed.</p><p>The wet heat of Hannibal’s mouth stopped his complaining in its tracks. Will’s hand flew out against the railing and nearly knocked his mug over the side.</p><p>It had been a long time since they’d had the luxury of moments like this. Even after the trial, after everything, any attempt at intimacy had been rushed and messy. Packed in among cramped monotony. Quiet, to not disturb. The kind of sex only couples who’d been married for a long time had.  </p><p>It really was such a shame. Hannibal had the steady, assured hands of a surgeon. The mind of a psychiatrist. He knew what Will wanted, and how to give it to him.</p><p>He had the mouth of a sailor too, and a wicked submissive streak, but not many people knew that. Will smiled, a little, thinking about being the only person privy to those small pieces of information. </p><p>“You look smug,” Hannibal said, slightly breathless. His lips glistened.</p><p>He kept Will warm with one hand, a firm, pumping touch that had Will’s fingers curling over the edge of the railing. </p><p>“Of course I’m smug. I’ve got you on your knees.”</p><p>Hannibal shook his head affectionately, and turned his nose against Will’s hip. “Are you going to make it worth my while?”</p><p>He took Will in all at once, then, and Will felt himself bump the back of his throat. His knees shook, hot beads of sweat pooled at his temples despite the cold. Hannibal didn’t choke. He swallowed expertly around him, eyes fluttering shut when Will’s hand tightened in his hair.</p><p>“Fuck,” Will said, eloquently. “Jesus fucking Christ — fuck — <em>fuck.” </em></p><p>Hannibal pushed a hand back up the front of his sweatshirt. Will thought he was going for his nipple again, but he didn’t. He turned his hand and pressed the flat of his palm to Will’s stomach, just below where his ribcage dipped into his abdomen. </p><p>The skin felt thinner there, below the long line of Hannibal’s middle finger to the base of his palm. His hips jerked. Hannibal grinned wickedly and pulled back to swirl his tongue, leaving Will gasping.</p><p>“Are you going to come for me?” Hannibal asked, and twisted his other hand around the base of Will’s cock. He stroked him in earnest, turned into it until a smear of white was left on the dip of his cheekbone. “I think I deserve it, don’t you? I’ve been so good.”</p><p>He was joking, but he accompanied it with a twist of his wrist, a skim of lips over the sensitive head, and Will sank his teeth into his own bottom lip until it hurt.</p><p>“You’re such an — <em>uh —</em> an asshole.”</p><p>“As you’ve said. A few times, I recall.”</p><p>He took Will into his mouth again and twisted his wrist. Will groaned and tipped his head back until his throat hurt from the strain. </p><p>“Come for me, Will.”</p><p>His voice was wrecked. He pressed his palm against Will’s stomach and took him down his throat. Will jerked, spasmed, and came. Searing heat up the backs of his thighs, in his chest, his lower back. Hannibal sucked him through it, and passed a hand over his cock as his orgasm subsided. Grinning, of course, like the cat that got the cream.</p><p>Will curled forward, cradling Hannibal’s head in both of his hands, pressed his forehead to the crown of his silver-brown hair as he shook through the aftershocks.</p><p>“I’ve missed you,” he panted. “Missed us.”</p><p>Hannibal turned his face upwards, fumbling around the angle for a moment, and slid their mouths together.</p><p>“You really are so lovely like this."</p><p>“Ugh. You ruined it. Shut up. Get away from me.”</p><p>Will pushed at his shoulders, urging him to stand, and pressed him in the direction of the bedroom. He’d show him <em> lovely, </em>alright.</p><p> </p><p>At some point, Will might have considered himself a morning person. This was no longer a fact. He wasn’t sure it ever had been; he didn’t think waking up early because of nightmares counted. </p><p>The night following Abigail’s exoneration was the first time he’d slept through the night since the day Marissa’s body was found. It had been exhilarating to wake up groggy the next morning, the type of tired that was just a hangover from a good night’s sleep, that could be fixed with a cup of coffee and a smile. He’d been sleeping even better since arriving in Yuzawa. Rest was an old friend that he welcomed back with open arms.</p><p>Christmas morning was definitely no exception to his newfound love of sleep.</p><p>“Shoot it,” he muttered against Hannibal’s chest.</p><p>Fine hair tickled his cheek when Hannibal chuckled and ran a fingertip down his spine.</p><p>“Shoot what?”</p><p>Will opened his eyes, and was immediately affronted by the sunlight reflecting off the snow back in through the windows which had seemed like a good idea at one point. The view was gorgeous, sure, but definitely not worth it. He turned his face further into Hannibal’s chest and groaned when it did nothing to block the light out.</p><p>“The sun.”</p><p>There was a rustle of fabric, and the sheet was pulled up over his head. </p><p>“I think this is easier,” Hannibal said, holding the sheet in place, “than trying to shoot the sun.”</p><p>“You don’t have to shoot it. But it needs to die.”</p><p>“I’ll try my best.” Hannibal released his grip on the sheet. “It’s refreshing to see you so well-rested.”</p><p>“‘Til the sun woke me up. Fucker.”</p><p>“Of course. How dare it.”</p><p>He shifted, just a little jerk of his shoulder at first, and then with purpose, lifting Will a little in an attempt to extricate himself from his limpet hold. Will clung on.</p><p>“Don’t you dare move. I just got comfortable.”</p><p>With a short, sharp laugh, Hannibal settled. He smoothed a lazy, calming pattern over Will’s back.</p><p>“I’m not going anywhere.”</p><p>They had to get up eventually, much to Will’s dismay. Hannibal had mercy on him, and there was a pot of coffee brewing by the time he got downstairs.</p><p>Abigail grinned at him over her book. She was slowly but surely making her way through the house’s entire library, which apparently held books in several languages. Today’s seemed to be in Russian. Maybe. Or some language which used Cyrillic.</p><p>“Can you even understand that?” he asked.</p><p>“Papa’s been teaching me.”</p><p>“Since when?” </p><p>He couldn’t remember either of them mentioning it, but he wasn’t exactly functioning to full capacity yet. </p><p>"You are useless in the mornings, aren't you?" Hannibal said, and pressed a mug into his hands. “I've been teaching her a few months. She’s picked it up brilliantly.”</p><p>Abigail’s mouth twitched at the praise. Will rounded the table to an empty seat and tried to press a kiss to her temple. He ended up missing by a half-inch and landing in the middle of her forehead, instead. She didn’t seem to mind.</p><p>“Merry Christmas, Dad," she sighed fondly.</p><p>“Merry Christmas, guppy."</p><p>They hadn’t been able to get a tree for the house, as much as Hannibal had insisted they try, so the small array of presents they had brought were stacked neatly in front of the fireplace instead. Abigail sat cross-legged on the floor to open them. There wasn’t anything too expensive or exciting; some makeup, a dainty gold bracelet, a new set of fancy calligraphy pens. </p><p>It didn’t matter how poor the gift selection was, or that they couldn’t get a turkey, or that the only Christmas movies they could get on the TV were in Japanese. The pure, unencumbered joy on Abigail’s face and the lack of tension in her shoulders was the only gift that really mattered to any of them. </p><p> </p><p>A few days after Christmas, Hannibal insisted that they should visit a local hot spring. It was, apparently, the <em>one thing </em>that they <em>absolutely had to do </em>in Yuzawa. Will hadn’t been sure about it at first, but — as always — he had been right. The hot water had done wonders for any lingering tension he’d been yet to let go of. He was lying loose-limbed and pleasantly worn out on the couch when his phone rang.</p><p>He had to walk to the kitchen to answer it, which was a journey all in itself, and Hannibal raised an amused eyebrow when he sloped in and grabbed his phone from the counter.</p><p>“You seem relaxed.”</p><p>Will squinted to read the caller ID: <em> Doctor Sutcliffe. </em></p><p>He sighed. “I was.”</p><p>Hannibal gave him a curious look. He ignored it and answered the call.</p><p>“Will Graham.”</p><p>“Good morning, Mr Graham. It’s Doctor Sutcliffe from the Noble Hills Health Care Center?”</p><p><em> I know, </em>Will didn’t say. </p><p>“Yeah. Doctor Bloom gave me your number. I guess she gave you mine, too.”</p><p>“She did,” Dr Sutcliffe said. “I just wanted to see if you were still interested in setting up an appointment with us?”</p><p>He picked at the rounded edge of the counter with his thumb nail. Truthfully, he’d been feeling better. Headaches still came about a few times a day, but they were nothing an Advil couldn’t fix. He hadn’t been sleepwalking or had any more strange dreams, and he definitely hadn’t had another seizure.</p><p>He also knew that feeling better didn’t mean anything; every illness, neurological or otherwise, came with good and bad days. It was likely he was just in a good spot due to alleviated stress.</p><p>The appointment would suck — he’d always hated the doctor’s office — but it would probably be worth it, even if it was just to confirm that he was fine.</p><p>“Yeah. I’m interested.”</p><p>When he finally got to hang up, Hannibal was gone. </p><p>He put his phone back on the counter and headed out into the living room. The couch had a low back, and he could just see Hannibal’s shoulders, the back of his head tilted forward slightly. He was reading, low, in something that might have been Russian.</p><p>Getting closer revealed Abigail, leaning against him with her eyes shut. She could have been asleep, but her lips moved ever so slightly with Hannibal’s voice. She was listening attentively, following every word with care.</p><p>Will wrapped his arms around Hannibal’s shoulders from behind and looked over his head at the book. He didn’t recognize one word on the page, but Hannibal’s easy tone was understandable enough.</p><p>Abigail opened her eyes and looked up at him dozily. She took his hand in one of hers, and re-situated herself against Hannibal’s side to make herself comfortable. Will pressed his face to the top of Hannibal’s head. He smelt like the shampoo the house owners had provided for them, and the lingering scent of the hot spring. Will kissed him there, at the delicate center of his hair where there were still patches of brown amongst the silver.</p><p>Hannibal smiled, and turned the page.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>a lovely fluffy chapter for you all, don’t say i never give you anything. you've probably noticed that we have a couple of chapters left to go: we’re not done yet! there's a lot more to come, and uhh... i can only apologise in advance.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, Op. 23</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The vacation cannot last forever.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Their vacation was over far too soon for Will’s liking, although they had been in Yuzawa almost a month by the time they headed back to the airport. He would have stayed there forever, if he could, in the blissful limbo between tragedy and life.</p><p>Five dogs rushed past Alana’s legs to greet them on their front lawn. Five. Not the four that they’d left. Hannibal eyed them, silently doing a headcount, and then another, and let out a short, resigned sigh before taking their suitcases into the house.</p><p>The unfamiliar dog sniffed around Abigail’s feet. She dropped into a crouch and scrubbed over its ears, fingertips catching on its thick collar.</p><p>“Who’s this?” Will asked, pushing a hand through the dog’s soft fur.</p><p>Alana grinned. “She’s mine: Applesauce.”</p><p>She whistled, and Applesauce trotted obediently to her side. She clipped her leash onto her collar and shrugged. “She likes Applesauce.”</p><p>“Of course she does,” Will laughed. “Adopted?”</p><p>“Found. I’m picking up some of your bad habits.”</p><p>“She’s beautiful,” Abigail said, laughing a little as Winston took Applesauce’s place under her hands.</p><p>Regarding her for a moment, Alana gave Will a look. A <em> we need to talk </em>sort of look. He touched Abigail’s shoulder.</p><p>“Would you take the dogs inside?”</p><p>Happy to do so, she gave Alana a quick half-hug on her way into the house. Their dogs followed her, eager for the treats she would undoubtedly supply, and Applesauce looked on longingly. Alana stepped closer to Will, away from the house, so that she could lower her voice.</p><p>“Did you speak to Dr Sutcliffe?” she asked.</p><p>“You know I did.”</p><p>She arched an eyebrow. “And?”</p><p>“I have an appointment next week. I haven’t told Hannibal about it, so don’t — y’know. I don’t want him to worry.”</p><p>She nodded gravely, but couldn’t hide the proud smile teasing at her face. In all the time they’d known each other, he’d never been one to take initiative when it came to his own health. She was happy that he was, finally, even if he wasn’t doing it for himself. </p><p>He looked away from her, up at the house. There was an off-color patch on the front where they hadn’t quite matched the paint. They all pretended they didn’t know what was underneath.</p><p> </p><p>The day of his seizure was mostly scrubbed from his memory. He remembered flashes of the day in court, of Bedelia’s cold gaze and the clinical walls of her office closing in on him. The evening spent in the hospital was clearer. Hannibal’s hand in his. His voice, calmly recalling Will’s medical history better than he could have recalled it himself; he couldn’t even remember the last time he had strep.</p><p>Hannibal had it on file. Will knew he did. </p><p>The morning of his appointment with Dr Sutcliffe, Will waited until Hannibal had left for work and Abigail was comfortably settled in with her tutor before he took to searching through the house for his medical records.</p><p>He looked through everything. Every cabinet, closet and odd box. The shed, which just held his own fishing equipment, and eventually the basement. There was nothing down there but old furniture and a freezer of Hannibal's cooking ingredients.</p><p>Eventually, after a pitiful final search through the study, it became clear that his medical records weren't there. He sat back on his haunches and surveyed the room one last time before he admitted defeat.</p><p>Going to Hannibal’s office would mean telling him about the appointment, but at least he’d know where the record was.</p><p>Hannibal's secretary regarded him with a smile and a cheery wave. She was basically a kid, fresh out of college, and Hannibal was convinced she had a promising future in psychiatry. Will still hadn’t managed to convince her to call him by his first name.</p><p>“Good morning, Mr Graham.”</p><p>“Morning, Laura.” He moved to lean on her desk, and then thought better of it and tucked his hands into his pockets instead. “Uh… Is Hannibal here?</p><p>“Sorry Mr Graham; he isn’t,” she said. “His midday appointment cancelled, so he left.”</p><p>“Right. Did he say when he’d be back?”</p><p>She shook her head. “He didn’t. He’ll probably be back soon, if you'd like to wait.”</p><p>His appointment with Dr Sutcliffe was creeping up, and he really wanted to get it over with. He couldn't waste time.</p><p>“I just have to look for a file, is it alright if I go through?”</p><p>“Of course.”</p><p>She took a ring of keys down from a hook behind her and flicked through them as she passed him. She stopped just at the door to Hannibal’s office, and counted through the keys again and again.</p><p>“The key isn’t here.”</p><p>“Do you know where it is?”</p><p>With a vaguely panicked look back at her desk, she shook her head. “No. But I, uh, I’ve got a skeleton key.”</p><p>That key was in her pocket, and her hands seemed to shake as she fumbled it out and tried to jimmy the lock open. She didn’t exactly seem scared of what Hannibal would do if he found out she'd lost it, but scared of disappointing him. Will understood the feeling. He had a way of holding people to a higher standard than they expected from themselves, and disappointing him felt like betrayal.</p><p>“I won’t tell him,” Will said.</p><p>She turned, surprised. “Really? You won’t?”</p><p>He shook his head. Some of the tension fell from her shoulders, and the lock finally gave. The door didn’t stick when she opened it. </p><p>“Thank you, Mr Graham,” she said as he slipped past her into the office.</p><p>He’d forgotten just how spacious Hannibal’s office was, though he remembered how handsomely he’d paid for it. It was worth it, he’d said, to have a space where both patient and psychiatrist could feel comfortable.</p><p>“It’s no problem.”</p><p>Laura was already gone, door clicking shut behind her. He sighed into the empty room. Far from empty, actually. The rows of bookshelves and statuettes lining every wall gave the distinct feeling that he was not alone. A carved stag on a stand watched him cross to Hannibal’s desk.</p><p>A half-finished drawing of a building had been left out on the desk. A couple of sharp pencils. A scalpel to sharpen them. Two photo frames, one of Abigail wearing Will’s fishing gear and grinning, another of her and Will in the kitchen on her first day of school. Turned away from where a patient could see them, these were only for him. He ran a finger over the top of the frames and wondered whether Hannibal looked at them often, for solace from a difficult day, like he did at his desk in the Academy.</p><p>The desk had one drawer, and it only contained more drawing supplies. The bookshelves on the bottom floor had rows of old hardbacks, and he doubted Hannibal would have gone so far as to hide his medical records in a book. As much as he sometimes acted like it, he wasn’t <em> actually </em>a character in a gothic mystery novel.</p><p>He took the ladder up to the second level. He’d never understood the function of the mezzanine, how it wrapped around the room in an incomplete loop, interrupted by the large windows. </p><p>The bookshelves were as neat as they were downstairs, clean and meticulously organised. He wondered if Hannibal dusted them, as he did in their study at home, or if he asked Laura to do it. He probably did it himself, feather duster and all. <em> If you want a job done right… </em></p><p>Most of the books were labelled with names, organised alphabetically. Every patient that Hannibal had ever treated had their own book, brought down for their appointment, dutifully filled in and carried back up. Returned to their rightful place with care. It might have been therapeutic for Hannibal, reminiscent of how he kept his patients at arm’s length. Placed them and their problems back on the shelf, to preserve the sanctum of his own mind.</p><p>He glanced arbitrarily at the <em> Gs, </em> and in turn at the <em> Ws, </em>and was pleased to not find his own name. Pleased, but not surprised. Hannibal was not taking notes on him, because he didn’t want to put him back on the shelf. He didn’t have to. Will took up a different space in his mind, a place where nobody else was allowed to stray. He flexed his hand and watched his wedding band glint in the light.</p><p>The silver handles of a filing cabinet in between two bookshelves reflected the light in the same way, bouncing from the windows onto the floor. It seemed out of place among the rest of the decor, but if the file was going to be anywhere, it was probably there. The mezzanine creaked beneath his feet as he crossed to it and gave the top drawer handle a tug.</p><p>It was locked. Of <em> course </em>it was locked. </p><p>Will grunted, and pushed a frustrated hand against it. It didn’t make the blunt rattle that he was expecting. It didn’t hit the wall at all.</p><p>He pushed it again, a little harder. It only went so far before it stopped and rebounded.</p><p>The cabinet was clearly not pushed flush against the wall, he had assumed to keep it in line with the bookshelves, but there was something jammed behind it, preventing it from hitting the wall. </p><p>It was probably nothing.</p><p>The cabinet was surprisingly light, and barely left a scratch on the floor when he tugged it out. As he'd suspected, there was something shoved behind it. A cardboard box. Unmarked. Nondescript. It could have been one of the thousands of file boxes kept in the belly of the FBI Academy. He ran a finger over the lid and it came away nearly black with dust. It mustn’t have meant much to Hannibal, if he’d left it in this state, so he didn’t feel guilty about flipping the lid open.</p><p>Iridescent metal glinted at the top of the box. Will pulled it out between two fingers, and tested the weight of Abigail’s knife in his palm. So <em>this</em> was where he’d hidden it. Not at the center of the labyrinth, but at the side. Behind a hedge. Where nobody but Will would think to look.</p><p>He tucked it into his pocket. Abigail had been exonerated, so he could throw it out now. It wouldn’t bother them anymore, and it wouldn’t be throwing away evidence. He just needed to know that it was gone.</p><p>There was more in the box, though. It could have been storage, sure, but something spurred him to keep digging. The promise of lilac plastic tucked beneath the rest of the contents.</p><p>With the same pinching grip, he tugged at the plastic until it gave and he could pull it out from the box. A smart watch. The heavy body of it swung as he held it from one side of the purple strap. He tapped the screen with the knuckle of his thumb and it flickered to life.</p><p>Nicholas Boyle stared back at him. </p><p>Not dead-eyed and cold, but smiling and alive. One arm around a young girl, who Will knew as his sister, Cassie; she was in the grade below Abigail. She hadn’t been at school since her brother had gone missing. Since he’d shown up dead. Murdered. By the same person who’d killed Marissa Schurr.</p><p>His stomach lurched. He dropped the watch and dug through the rest of the box. It had to be a mistake. It had to be.</p><p>In amongst odd papers and old books, his fingers hit something cold and firm.</p><p>A phone. Not the latest model. The screen was cracked nearly perfectly down the middle. He flipped it over.</p><p>The case was pretty, covered in pink roses. It was one of those that were sold at fairs and theme parks, with a personalisation at the bottom. Three gold letters, peeling a little:</p><p>
  <b>M.A.S.</b>
</p><p>
  <em> Marissa Ann Schurr. </em>
</p><p>Marissa’s phone clattered back into the box. He scrambled back on his hands until he hit the railing of the mezzanine, and kicked the box back against the wall. The lid teetered and dropped back, a plume of dust in its wake. He dropped his head between his knees.</p><p>He was wrong. He had to be wrong. There was so much he still didn’t know. </p><p>He knew that the Ripper had killed Marissa Schurr. Nicholas Boyle. Judge Davies. </p><p>He knew the Ripper had been active for twenty years, on and off. He knew Hannibal had moved here about that long ago. He didn’t know where he’d lived before, he’d never thought to ask. It had never mattered.</p><p>He knew the Ripper was a surgeon. The cuts were clean, organs removed with as much care as given to a transplant patient. Hannibal was a surgeon, before he was a psychiatrist. His hands were still steady, never twitching or shaking like Will’s. He had asked him for help tying a fly, more than once, when his hands weren’t steady enough.</p><p>He knew the Chesapeake Ripper. He’d always known him.</p><p>He didn’t trust his hands to get him back down the ladder, and he didn’t even feel secure when his feet were on solid ground again. He didn’t feel secure in anything. </p><p>He approached Hannibal’s desk carefully. One foot crossing in front of the other. He was almost surprised to find the drawings where he’d left them. </p><p>On top of the pile was the half-finished building Hannibal had been working on before he’d left. He lifted it, ever so carefully, by the corner, and revealed the next. A man turned away, the muscles in his back contorting with the odd angle of his waist. Hannibal had always been fascinated with the human form. With bodies as art. He praised Will in the same way. Hands and lips over muscle and skin and bone. Mapping out every part of the body, every delicate dip between ribs.</p><p>The Ripper loved people. He liked bending them to his whims. Seeing how far he could push them before they broke. He loved stitching together their torn skin and elevating them to art. As morbid as they were, his creations were worthy of a place in the Louvre.</p><p>The next was unmistakable. Another anatomical figure, this time speared in measured points along its body. Surgical equipment, kitchen knives, anything that could pierce human skin. Will traced a fingertip over the graphite. The Wound Man was the first Ripper kill that Will had consulted on. The reason Jack had called him in the first place. Undeniably, it was the reason he had met Hannibal.</p><p>He rang Beverly. He didn’t know what else to do.</p><p>It rang once. He didn’t know what he wanted from her. Whether he was going to tell her what he had found. </p><p>Twice. Did he want her to know?</p><p>Three times. The door handle rattled.</p><p>Will froze. The phone rang idly in his ear. The handle moved again, the sound deafening in the quiet room. Muffled voices came from behind the door. One of them was slightly higher. Laura, explaining the incident of the lost key.</p><p>“Will?” Beverly answered.</p><p>He shoved his phone back in his pocket just as the door swung open. </p><p>Hannibal blinked at him. Laura, over his shoulder, disappeared back to her desk.</p><p>“Will. I wasn’t expecting you.”</p><p>Cold flooded Will’s body. He <em> had </em>to know. Just the look on Will’s face had to have given it away.</p><p>Hannibal’s eyes tracked over his face. “Will? Are you alright? Did you hear me?”</p><p>Will opened his mouth. Closed it again. He didn’t know. He was… concerned.</p><p>“I… I don’t know how I got here," he lied.</p><p>Something softened in Hannibal’s expression. He let the door shut behind him, and took a few precarious steps forward until he was within touching distance. He didn’t touch him, though, just looked over him carefully. </p><p>His eyes floated down to his drawings, seemingly undisturbed. Will balled his fists at his sides.</p><p>Hannibal pressed the back of his hand against Will’s forehead. </p><p>“You don’t seem to have a fever. Come, take a seat.”</p><p>He ushered him to one of the chairs, set up for his patients, and Will sat unsteadily as he moved away.</p><p>“Your car is outside, so we know you drove,” Hannibal said. “Laura didn’t see you come in. You must have entered by the private exit.”</p><p>Laura definitely <em> had </em>seen him come in. She’d covered for him. Did she, too, know what Hannibal was capable of? Did he lure his victims here, to his office?</p><p>He startled when Hannibal appeared in front of him again. When he looked up, he expected to see <em> something </em>in his face. Something different. Something he hadn’t seen before. But there was nothing. No change at all. Just an imperceptible twitch of his brow, a concerned tilt of his head.</p><p>“I’m worried about you, Will.”</p><p>Will nodded. “I am, too.”</p><p> </p><p>Will lay awake that night. The clock on the nightstand ticked steadily.</p><p>He didn’t know if Beverly had called him back. He couldn’t bring himself to look at his phone. The weight was too familiar in his hand, every time he touched the cool metal he remembered Marissa Schurr. It was terrifyingly easy to put himself in her place. To look over his shoulder and see Hannibal there, stalking her on the winding path. Tucking her dropped phone into his pocket as he left.</p><p>Why would he take it? Out of convenience? It wasn’t like he needed it, and it hadn't been displayed, or even kept anywhere particularly poignant or significant. It was shoved to the bottom of a box, behind a filing cabinet, the only thing in the office covered in an undisturbed layer of dust. The Chesapeake Ripper didn’t take trophies.</p><p>But he did. He <em> did. </em>He took livers, and hearts, and once — memorably — a leg. </p><p>They didn’t know what he did with them. <em> Hadn’t </em>known.</p><p>Tandoori liver. Heart tartare. Soup with chicken thigh. Will had spoon fed it to Abigail when she was sick. </p><p>Cold sweat clung to the back of his neck. He lurched out of bed and into the en-suite. His bare knees were cold and aching against the tile.</p><p>The light flicked on. Will shut his eyes and rested his cheek against the toilet bowl. The faucet ran, and then stopped. A hand smoothed between his shoulder blades, down to the hem of his t-shirt and back up again.</p><p>Hannibal lowered a glass of water into his sight.</p><p>
  <em> “Drink. You have had a hard day, and you take little care of yourself when Abigail is in need.” </em>
</p><p>Will had slept for the entire evening the night that Abigail was arrested. He’d woken up dizzy and disoriented, unsure of how he’d managed to sleep at all, let alone for that long.</p><p>
  <em> “Drink.” </em>
</p><p>His stomach lurched again.</p><p>“Oh, Will,” Hannibal said gently. </p><p>His hands were everywhere, pulling Will’s hair back from his forehead, smoothing cool down the back of his neck. A monster should not have been capable of this tenderness.</p><p>Not a monster, perhaps, but something <em> other. </em> He’d never been under any assumption that Hannibal was wholly human. </p><p>Hannibal had never pretended to be something he wasn't. He'd shown Will flashes of it, more than he'd ever shown anyone else, in those moments where he couldn't quite place a reaction. He had told Will, once, about how he zipped himself up every day. Covered his blank interior with a personality that had never come naturally to him. Dr Du Maurier had called it his <em>person suit. </em>She'd normalized it, made it all less terrifying and easier to manage.</p><p>Psychopathy was not a death sentence. Holding emotion at arm's length was not inherently evil. It was a defense mechanism, one that he had let Will get behind.</p><p>Will had given him a life. A child. He remembered how he had held Abigail, that first day, how it was the most human thing he had ever seen.</p><p>His legs didn’t shake when he pushed himself up from the floor and pressed on the toilet flush. Hannibal watched him cross to the sink, turn on the faucet, scrub the taste of bile from his mouth with a spare toothbrush they kept in the cabinet until all he could taste was mint.</p><p>He followed silently as Will left the bathroom. Will removed his own shirt and wondered whether his victims heard him coming. Did he remove his shoes to soften the sound of his feet against the carpet? </p><p>“Come here,” Will said. His voice was strong and sure.</p><p>Hannibal’s breath fanned out over the back of his neck. The stag was not there, in the mirror above the dresser. </p><p>“Touch me.”</p><p>Hannibal's reflection met his eyes. “Will, I’m not sure…”</p><p>“I’m fine,” Will snapped. “Just touch me. Please.”</p><p>Mouth an uncertain line, Hannibal pressed his hands carefully to Will’s sides. Leaned in, face tilted to the steady curve where Will’s neck met his shoulder. His reflection’s eyes fluttered closed. His palms moved up Will’s flanks, nearly to his armpits, and back down. He might have been planning the best route to Will's heart. Between the ribs, angled upwards. With a sharp blade.</p><p>Will had never been lucky in love. Not until this. Not until Hannibal. He would never be this lucky again.</p><p>He had made a promise. <em> ‘Til death do us part.  </em></p><p>He leaned back, pressed his back to Hannibal’s front, turned his head until his nose brushed the tortured crease of Hannibal’s brow. </p><p>“Take me to bed,” he whispered.</p><p>Hannibal looked, for a moment, like he wanted to protest. Will slid their mouths together. He didn’t wait for Hannibal to close the space between them.</p><p>No matter who he was. No matter <em> what </em>he was. Will knew one thing: this was more important. Abigail was more important. Their family was more important. Nothing was going to take it from him again.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i would have named this chapter ‘i bet on losing dogs’ if i wasn't committed to the classical piece titles. but, uh, yeah. that song is the vibe for this one. <a href="https://youtu.be/WWyVNXgg94U">specifically this version of it, which i listened to on loop while writing.</a></p><p>but what will will graham do?? find out in the next chapter of ‘holy shit i’m almost finished with this thing’. thanks for tuning in!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Piano Concerto in A Minor, Op. 16: I. Allegro molto moderato</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>2002</b>
</p><p>It took Will an embarrassingly long time to realize that he was being watched.</p><p>Watched was, perhaps, not the right word for it.</p><p>The small, dingy cafe didn’t yield many customers from out of town. His presence was perplexing enough for the patrons, who sent many a curious stare his way when he settled himself at a sticky table near the window. Undoubtedly, the case file lying open in front of him and the notebook he was furiously scrawling in attracted more attention than he did; the people of Chesapeake were understandably intrigued by the gruesome homicide that had happened in their city not twenty-four hours ago.</p><p>This gaze was not from one of the patrons, though. At least not a regular one. Will raised his head a little, and looked through the floor-to-ceiling window that faced out onto the wide street. The cafe offered a small amount of outdoor seating, and at one of the metal tables sat a handsome, suited man. Unlike the other customers, he didn't shy away when their eyes met.</p><p>He took a measured sip of his espresso. It looked comically small in his large hand. Will looked back down at his notebook; a victim impaled with countless sharp instruments suddenly seemed a lot less interesting.</p><p>When he looked back up, the man was gone. Will blinked, for a moment concerned that he had been a mirage.</p><p>“Is this seat taken?”</p><p>Not a mirage, then. </p><p>The man gestured vaguely to the empty seat opposite Will. He towered over the table, a wool coat slung over one arm. It was just a shade darker than his tan blazer. His suit towed the line between casual and formal; no tie, and a beige sweater covering his white shirt, which was open at the collar.</p><p>Will shook his head. The man smiled amicably and slid into the empty seat. He set his coffee down on the table and took a notebook and a pencil out of his pocket, and Will went back to the file.</p><p>Admittedly, it was nice to have company, even if it was uninvited. He felt less raw under the stares of the townsfolk with this man opposite him, the neat line of his brown hair, the light <em> scritch scritch </em>of pencil on paper. </p><p>“Are you drawing?”</p><p>He didn’t know what possessed him to ask. Small talk was usually something he avoided at all costs, but he supposed this man staring at him for the past hour had elevated them past that point.</p><p>“Yes,” the man said. “I find it’s an effective use of my hands, when they’re not otherwise occupied.”</p><p>Will nodded. He didn’t quite know how to respond to that — starting the conversation was the first hurdle, continuing it was another. He returned to his own notes, his chicken scratch sloping across the page seemed almost manic in comparison to this man’s easy presence.</p><p>“I couldn’t help but notice your work,” the man said. “Are you here with the FBI?”</p><p>“I’m consulting,” Will said. “I have a— it doesn’t matter. I’m not real FBI.”</p><p>“Associations come quickly,” the man supposed.</p><p>“Right. Well, I don’t know how long they’ll want to associate with me after this. I’m kind of stuck.”</p><p>The man extended a hand across the table. It was pale and long, clean despite the graphite smudged across the page of his sketchbook. Graceful, like a dancer would extend their reach through their middle finger. </p><p>He wasn’t sure what it was, but something about him made Will push the file across the table. </p><p>“He was found at a machine shop down the street, like that”—Will gestured at the crime scene photos—“in the early hours of this morning. The killer used anything he had to hand in the workshop, probably brought some with him, too.”</p><p>The man put his sketchbook down to pick up the photograph. He studied it for a moment.</p><p>“The illustration of the Wound Man has appeared in European surgical texts since the Middle Ages. Have you considered that your killer might have a medical background?”</p><p>“We thought so, but the background checks came up empty. This guy had never had surgery, never been to the emergency room… He was probably the luckiest guy in the world, from a medical standpoint.”</p><p>“Until now.”</p><p>“Until now.”</p><p>Hannibal placed the photograph down. The soft, clean curve of his fingernail dully reflected the light as he pushed it back into place with his middle finger. </p><p>A waitress doing her rounds came to their table, already reaching for a small memo pad tucked into her apron. </p><p>“Can I get you gentlemen anything?”</p><p>Her acrylic name tag read <em> Susan, </em>an aged name for a young woman. It was chipped on one side, and the crack extended all the way across, through the middle of the black letters. </p><p>“No, thank you,” the man said. </p><p>“Well, give me a bell if you change your minds.”</p><p>She collected their empty mugs, and disappeared back across the cafe. Will traced a finger over the indents his handwriting had left in the page of his notebook.</p><p>“Not fond of eye contact, are you?”</p><p>Will looked up, surprised. The man’s expression did not falter. His eyes, now that Will had allowed himself to look, were dark and interested. In the low light, there was barely a shade between his pupils and his irises.</p><p>“Eyes are distracting,” Will said. “I try to avoid them whenever possible.”</p><p>He moved to pack the crime scene photos away. It was probably a lapse in judgement to allow this man to even look at them; the appearance of the waitress had been an abrasive reminder of where he was.</p><p>“What else do you avoid?”</p><p>Will stopped. “I’m sorry?”</p><p>“I imagine what you see and learn touches everything else in your mind. Your values and decency are present yet shocked at your associations, appalled at your dreams. No room in the bone arena of your skull for things you love.”</p><p>His dark eyes narrowed, a little, as he waited for Will’s response. </p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>“Have you noticed that during an intense conversation, you adopt the other person’s cadence of speech?”</p><p>“What is this? Is this an ambush?”</p><p>The man settled back in his seat, hands placed neatly on his knee, crossed over the other. </p><p>“I apologize. Observing is what I do. I can’t shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off.”</p><p>“Who are you? Did Jack hire you?”</p><p>“Doctor Hannibal Lecter,” he said. “I’m a psychiatrist. Yes, I was hired by Jack Crawford.”</p><p>Will stared. He might have been gawking, but Hannibal’s presence had stripped him of any control that he had over his own expressions.</p><p>“To do what?”</p><p>“I’m sorry, Will. I should have been honest with you.”</p><p>He knew Will’s name. </p><p>Will stood. He didn’t know what else to do. Of <em> course </em> he was a psychiatrist. Of <em> course </em>he knew his name. Will had baffled psychiatric professionals since he’d received his diagnosis. He should have known better than to think that this was any more than that; that he was the type of person that a handsome man would randomly choose to sit with in a cafe without some ulterior motive. He was probably taking notes for his report. It would be an achievement to write something on Will; he’d refused any sort of interview or evaluation for years.</p><p>Will shoved the file and his notebook back into his bag. Hannibal watched him.</p><p>“Will, please sit down. Allow me to explain—”</p><p>“No, you don’t get to explain,” Will said. “Goodbye, Doctor Lecter. I have a crime scene to get back to.”</p><p>He slipped between occupied tables towards the door. The bell chimed obnoxiously above him. He struggled into the arms of his jacket as he paced down the sidewalk, past flocks of people moving the other way. </p><p>“Will.”</p><p>Hannibal had followed him. He wasn’t rushing to keep up; he was strolling easily, hands in his pockets. That, somehow, irritated Will even more. He sped up, finally getting his arms into the sleeves, and threw his bag over his shoulder. He was walking in the opposite direction to the crime scene, but he couldn’t stop now. Hannibal was gaining on him fast, his footfalls a little more urgent behind him.</p><p>Will made to cross the street. He spoke over his shoulder, “I don’t respond well to traps, Doctor Lecter.”</p><p>“It wasn’t a trap. Will—”</p><p>Hannibal caught Will’s sleeve before he could step out into the road. Will whirled around, ready to shake him off, and a bus rattled past behind him. The breeze ruffled the hair at the back of his head. If Hannibal hadn’t caught him, he likely would have been under the front wheels. He breathed heavily, winded by the close call.</p><p>“Did you follow me here? To the cafe?”</p><p>“No,” Hannibal said. “That was a lucky coincidence.”</p><p>Inexplicably, Will was inclined to believe him. He tugged his arm back, and Hannibal dropped his grip on his sleeve.</p><p>“Lucky for you.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled. “Yes, but not in the way I’m sure you are thinking.”</p><p>Will didn’t know what that meant. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets. </p><p>“You’ve got thirty seconds to explain yourself,” he said. “If I’m not convinced by then, I’m leaving. And you’re not chasing me down.”</p><p>“A fair exchange,” Hannibal said, vaguely amused.</p><p>Will raised an eyebrow. “One, two…”</p><p>“I am a psychiatrist, that’s true,” Hannibal explained, unfazed by the time limit. “I was hired by Jack Crawford to consult on the Wound Man case, in case you turned him down. You didn’t, but I had already cancelled my appointments for the day, so I decided to come anyway. Running into you was merely a coincidence. A lucky one, as I—”</p><p>“Time’s up.”</p><p>Hannibal looked at him, waiting patiently to see if he had done enough.</p><p>Will glanced down the street, at the cafe that they had come from. Past it, to the crime scene in the distance, clearly marked by the blue lights flashing at the end of the street.</p><p>“Would you like to walk with me?” he asked. “If you psychoanalyze me again, I’ll walk away. I swear to god. You won’t like me when I’m psychoanalyzed.”</p><p>“Duly noted. Perhaps you could fill me in on what you know so far about the killer, instead?”</p><p>“Okay, yeah. Sure. Come on.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>February 2019</b>
</p><p>Will had never been afraid of the dark. </p><p>Even as a child, he hadn’t feared monsters hiding under his bed or in his closet. He had never been afraid of what he couldn’t see because he had thought, naively, that he could see everything. His ability usually allowed him that, even at that age.</p><p>He took the basement steps slowly, and the door swung gently shut behind him. The only light switch was at the bottom of the stairs, a few feet into the basement itself, so he had to take the rest of the stairs blind. He found himself suddenly and inexplicably terrified of being swallowed by the murky darkness. </p><p>He pressed on the light switch gratefully, and the overhead light flickered to life. Swinging a little, it cast swirling shadows on the bare walls. This was perhaps the only room in the house that would ever see a naked bulb; the rest were far too well-kept.</p><p>The only other source of light was the big, restaurant-style freezer that Hannibal had insisted on. It seemed out of place in the room, too sleek and lavish for an otherwise undecorated space. Cold air rushed at Will’s face when he tugged the doors open and stared at the shelves of vacuum-packed lumps of meat. </p><p>He didn’t know what he was looking for. Proof, perhaps. Evidence. He took one down from the shelf at eye-level and turned it over in his hands. A heart. Hannibal did not go so far as to label them. A wise decision, on his part. Unless somebody had great knowledge of the difference between the inner workings of humans and animals, there would be no need for them to question where these organs came from.</p><p>Will had grown up a hunter, though he had always been a better fisherman. He knew how an animal heart was supposed to feel. The weight of it in his palm.</p><p>He had never held a human heart in his hand before. He was not prepared for how apathetic he would feel.</p><p> </p><p>They still ate all together at the table. Will couldn’t reasonably start turning Hannibal’s food down with no explanation, and he honestly wasn’t sure whether he wanted to. That scared him more than the knowledge of where it came from.</p><p>Abigail was going to bed earlier now that she had daily tutoring. When she had disappeared upstairs after dinner, Hannibal poured two glasses of wine and they retired to the study. Will stood in front of the fireplace and watched the reflection of the fire flickering in the tile.</p><p>“I’m going to go back to work,” he said.</p><p>Hannibal was silent for a long moment. “Are you sure?”</p><p>“I’m sure. Doctor Sutcliffe cleared me. He wants me to go back to him in three months, or if something changes, but I’m okay to work.”</p><p>More silence. A creak of leather as Hannibal stood, and crossed the carpet. Will felt his body heat all across his back as he stepped in close, somehow warmer than the heat coming from the fire. His breath stirred the hair at Will’s nape as he breathed in.</p><p>“I don’t smell it on you anymore.”</p><p>Will turned into him, bringing their faces mere inches apart. </p><p>“Smell what?”</p><p>“Fever. There was a sweet note to it, I thought…”</p><p>Will searched his face. The orange glow of the fire cast lines across his skin, accentuating the sharp angle of his cheekbones, his jaw. The shadows made his hair appear dark, and the lack of silver made it clear how little he had aged since they had met. </p><p>“What did you think?”</p><p>Hannibal shook his head. His hands squeezed Will’s hips. </p><p>“It doesn’t matter now. I perhaps shouldn’t trust my sense of smell as implicitly as I do.”</p><p>“You should stop smelling people.” Will settled his hand over Hannibal’s on his hip and turned back to the fire. “It might get you in trouble. Not everyone is as understanding as me.”</p><p>“And you are very understanding.”</p><p>The tip of his nose traced the vein up the side of Will’s throat. Will shut his eyes and craned his head to give him easier access.</p><p>“More than you know.”</p><p> </p><p>Will’s students were surprisingly happy to see him return to the front of the lecture hall. They didn’t seem perturbed by the reason for his extended absence, and a few of them even lingered around his desk to inquire about his vacation. He indulged them with a photo of the view of the mountains from their balcony, and didn’t ask how they knew about it. Freddie Lounds had been busy, undoubtedly, but Tattlecrime’s homepage hadn’t graced his web browser in weeks.</p><p>He was organizing handouts for his next lecture when Beverly appeared in the doorway. She knocked politely on the side of the stalls. </p><p>“Come in,” he said. “I’m not busy.”</p><p>Her mouth slanted into an easy smile, and her heels clicked against the floor as she came to lean on the side of his desk.</p><p>“Vacation is a good look on you, Graham. You look better.”</p><p>“Thanks. It’s all the virgin blood I’m drinking.”</p><p>“You are insane. Here.”</p><p>A file landed heavily on the desk, ruffling his careful stacks of sheets. </p><p>“What’s this?” he asked.</p><p>“Jack wants you to take a look at the Ingram scene.”</p><p>He scowled. “Clark Ingram committed suicide.”</p><p>“We thought so,"—she crossed her arms—“but the autopsy noticed something strange.”</p><p>“Strange?”</p><p>“His liver was missing. Cut out post-mortem.”</p><p>Will thought of the vacuum-sealed organs in his basement. The liver that was definitely not from an animal. At least, not in the literal sense.</p><p>“And you didn’t notice this sooner?”</p><p>“We didn’t look. Local coroner didn’t tell us until after he’d been cremated.”</p><p>
  <em> Thank god for small town incompetence.  </em>
</p><p>“Jack thinks it’s the Ripper?”</p><p>“Who else would take his liver?”</p><p>It made sense. Of course Hannibal had killed Clark Ingram. He evaluated potential threats better than anyone. If Ingram had been stalking Abigail, as Will suspected, Hannibal would have known about it. He’d probably been planning on killing him for months. Clearing Abigail’s name was a convenient bonus.</p><p>“It’s the Ripper, then,” Will said. “If Jack’s convinced, you don't need me to look at it.”</p><p>He pushed the file back over to her. She picked it up, and looked up at the very back of the stalls.</p><p>“I understand if you don’t want to talk about it,” she said.</p><p>“I’m happy to talk about it, but I doubt this scene is gonna give us any—”</p><p>“Not that.” Her bottom lip disappeared between her teeth for a moment, and she glanced down at the file in her hands. “Are you gonna explain that phone call?”</p><p>Will sighed. Not if he didn’t have to, he wasn’t.</p><p>“It was nothing. I accidentally dialed your number, and—”</p><p>“You forgot to hang up,” she said. He went cold. “Look. I don’t know what you wanted me to hear, what you wanted to tell me, but it wasn’t nothing. You sounded scared, Will.”</p><p>He swallowed. She was looking at him, now, studying his face. Exactly how she was trained to study witnesses and victims for micro-expressions that would suggest fear. Unease. Abuse.</p><p>“I don’t claim to know what’s going on, and I don’t want to victimize you, but if Hannibal is doing something to hurt you…”</p><p>“Then don’t. Don’t victimize me.”</p><p>She rolled her lips, and nodded.</p><p>“I’m not abused,” he said. “I don’t know what you think this is, what you think <em>we</em> are, but you are not in any position to be talking about my marriage like that. We’re not friends. We’re colleagues, if that.”</p><p>She opened her mouth, and then closed it. Her gaze darted away, and a dart of regret hit the center of Will’s spine at the hurt in her eyes when she tried to look back at him, and found that she couldn’t. She looked at her hands instead.</p><p>“Okay, Will,” she said, quietly. “I’m sorry. I guess I thought… Whatever, it doesn't matter what I thought.”</p><p>She stood, the Ingram file still clutched in her grip, and he watched her retreat back towards the door she’d entered through. She stopped in the doorway, and turned.</p><p>“You’re not alone. You know that, right? Even if it’s not… Just — you can talk to me.”</p><p>“I know,” he said, knowing that he couldn’t, "thank you.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2003</b>
</p><p>“I have a question for you. It’s quite a serious topic, I’m afraid.”</p><p>Will unstuck his cheek from Hannibal’s skin to rest his chin on his bare chest instead. </p><p>“If you’re about to break up with me, can it wait? I don’t think I can handle that right now.”</p><p>Hannibal huffed bemusedly through his nose and stroked a hand through Will’s curls. </p><p>“Of course not, Will. I am yours until death, if you’ll have me.”</p><p>That should have turned Will off, but — as always — Hannibal’s insistence that they were no less than soulmates only sent a happy little thrill through Will’s heart. Under no illusion that it would hide his smile, he turned his head a little to glance at the clock. It was ticking just past midnight.</p><p>“What is it, then?”</p><p>Hannibal’s fingers moved down his scalp and rested on either side of his neck. </p><p>“I think you should move in with me. Or, rather, we should move in together. We would choose the house together, of course.”</p><p>Will blinked. He turned his head again, and found only sincerity in Hannibal’s expression. More truth than he had ever seen from one person.</p><p>“Are you sure? I’m not… I mean, I want to. Trust me, I want to. But it’s a big commitment, and I work crazy hours, and Jack doesn’t even know we’re—”</p><p>“I think you’ll find he does,” Hannibal said. “He is the FBI’s best profiler, after all. And you are not very subtle.”</p><p>Will swatted his chest in mock-offence. </p><p>“I’m very subtle. Asshole.”</p><p>“Okay, you have the <em> ability </em> to be subtle. You do not always use it.”</p><p>He wasn’t exactly happy with that amendment, but he settled down again anyway. It was too cold to be any further away from Hannibal than he was right now. He pressed his cheek back against Hannibal’s chest and listened to the steady thrum of his heart.</p><p>“Do you really think he knows?”</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal laughed, "he does. As long as it does not impede your ability to do your job, he shouldn’t mind. And I would argue your work has improved.”</p><p>Will considered that.</p><p>“He’s spoken to you, hasn’t he?”</p><p>“Perhaps.”</p><p>“Did he give you the shovel talk?”</p><p>“A version of it, yes.”</p><p>Will smiled to himself. “You should have called me, I would have liked to see that.”</p><p>“I’m sure you would have,” Hannibal said, amused. “He gave me his blessing, as well.”</p><p>“Like he’s my father.”</p><p>It was not uncomfortable for Will to joke about his father. Will Graham Sr. had not been a kind man, and Will felt no yearning for a father figure. Hannibal was right, in a way, Jack was possibly the closest senior male figure he’d had since he was a child, before his actual father drank himself to death. Hannibal’s hand stroked down the center of his back. </p><p>A teasing tone crept into Hannibal’s accent, “Would Jack walk you down the aisle?”</p><p>Will scoffed. “What makes you think I’d be the one walking down the aisle? You’d look far better in white.”</p><p>“Maybe. I’m sure Alana would like the chance to give me away.”</p><p>Will spread his hand flat over Hannibal’s chest. It was strangely easy to imagine the weight of a wedding band on his ring finger. He could almost see it glinting in the light. </p><p>“I wouldn’t want either of us to walk down the aisle. I don’t like the idea of being given to you, or having you given to me. I’m already yours.”</p><p>He set his chin on Hannibal’s chest again. Hannibal watched him, lips parted a little. It might have been surprise. Until now, Will hadn’t been sure that he was capable of being surprised.</p><p>Hannibal wet his lips. “I think that might be the first time you’ve said that you love me.”</p><p>“Not in so many words,” Will said. “Did you doubt that I did?”</p><p>“I hoped that you did, but I’m glad to know for certain.”</p><p>He didn’t know how to respond to that, so he pressed forward until he caught Hannibal’s mouth in his, and hoped that the slide of their mouths would be answer enough.</p><p>Hannibal framed Will’s head in both of his hands, fingertips curling against his scalp. His eyes were still closed when Will pulled back, just an inch. </p><p>“What was it you said earlier?” Will asked. “Yours until…?”</p><p>“...Death,"—Hannibal opened his eyes, just a little—“if you’ll have me.”</p><p>Will nodded. “I am yours until death, if you’ll have me.”</p><p>A smile broke on Hannibal’s face, and then Will was being kissed. Flipped onto his back. Pressed insistently into the mattress. He smiled, and their teeth clacked together. </p><p>Something settled in his chest, and it took him a moment to realize what it was. The weight of home. </p><p> </p><p>
  <b>February 2019</b>
</p><p>“The Ripper is killing teenagers. So, what? He’s a sexual sadist now?”</p><p>Jack was talking to Will, but he didn’t reply. Just crossed his arms over his chest and watched Beverly shine a small flashlight in Elise Nichols’ mouth. She still wasn’t talking to him. Even when they’d arrived at the crime scene, she’d barely said a word more than she’d absolutely had to. </p><p>He supposed it was fair after what he'd said, but he had bigger things to worry about.</p><p>“He’s never been attracted to his victims—" she clicked her flashlight off and released Elise’s bottom lip— "he's not about to start now.”</p><p>Jack sighed. “Then what is it?”</p><p>Elise Nichols had been found by her parents, when they’d returned from a weekend vacation, in her own bed. She might have been asleep, if it wasn’t for her open chest cavity, the new home of a bright bouquet of flowers.</p><p>“It’s a message,” Will said.</p><p>“For who?”</p><p>He stared at the flowers in her chest. Peonies. Hydrangeas. Roses. Compassion. Beauty. Love. </p><p>Courtship. Will knew who he was courting.</p><p>“For us.” He looked at the posters on the walls instead of at Jack. “He wants us to catch someone, like he wanted you to catch Clark Ingram. Somewhere, in all of this evidence, you will find something that will lead you <em> away </em>from the real killer.” </p><p>He couldn’t look at their reactions to his lie, so he ducked out of Elise’s bedroom and down the hall. The family photos and knick-knacks on the shelves leered at him as he passed to the stairs. This was the last Ripper case he would consult on, he knew that. He could plant as many seeds of doubt as he wanted, subtly lead them away from Hannibal as much as possible, but eventually he would slip up. His lies wouldn’t be believable anymore. It couldn’t last forever. Nothing did.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>2004</b>
</p><p>It had taken them less than a week to set up the nursery. Hannibal had most of the control over design, with Alana to rein in some of his more extravagant choices, and between them they’d created a beautiful space for her. </p><p>Will, however, had spent the week going back and forth to the foster home that Abigail was staying in while the adoption was processed. They seemed like a nice enough family, and they were happy to bend the rules a little and let him see her. Nobody seemed to have any doubts about where she would end up, eventually.</p><p>He rocked her a little, not willing to put her down yet although she had been asleep for a few minutes. She was eighteen months old, but he had her swaddled like a newborn. He supposed she was, in a way. This was her first night in a new life. Their new life.</p><p>“Will, Alana was asking—”</p><p>Will turned, and raised a finger to his lips. “Shh. I’ve just got her to sleep.”</p><p>Hannibal smiled, and whispered into the phone at his ear, “Sorry, Alana. I’ll call you back.”</p><p>She said something that Will didn’t hear, and he bid her goodbye before tucking his phone back into his pocket. Will turned back towards her toddler bed and listened to Hannibal's feet against the carpet.</p><p>He tucked his chin over Will’s shoulder and snaked one arm around his waist. The other came up to secure a strip of blanket which had come unwrapped, and lingered there beside Will’s own. </p><p>“Can you believe it?” Will whispered.</p><p>Hannibal brushed over the baby’s cheek with the side of his finger. His hand dwarfed her. </p><p>“She’s more perfect than I imagined.”</p><p>“You imagined this?”</p><p>He turned, just a little, to study the side of Hannibal’s face. His expression was serene, eyes light and happy as he looked down at the child. Their child. </p><p>“Not until recently. I had never imagined I’d become a father. Not in the literal sense.”</p><p>“Mischa.”</p><p>There was a sad sort of pain in the twist of Hannibal’s mouth when he nodded, once. </p><p>“She wasn’t my child, but she was my charge.” He turned his face towards Will, his nose pressing at the curve of his jaw as his chin dug into Will’s shoulder a little. “You are my charge now. You and Abigail.”</p><p>He meant it. Will did, too. He had never truly understood how the connection between parent and child worked. Perhaps he’d never believed in it until now. He looked down at the child in his arms and knew that he had never loved so fiercely. Never like this. Nothing would harm her, for as long as he was there to protect her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>February 2019</b>
</p><p>Elise Nichols’ skin was washed out in the stark light of the lab. The flowers in her chest had started to wilt, despite Price’s best attempts to keep them vibrant. It must have been difficult to tend to such a morbid garden; nobody blamed him for the brown spots on the petals.</p><p>He was holding a magnifying glass to one of them. Will was not close enough to look through it. Far on the other side of the autopsy table, he leaned back against an empty counter and clasped his gloved hands between his knees as Price spoke.</p><p>“We found a fingerprint on a flower petal. A partial, smudged. Not enough points for a courtroom, but it triggered a match.”</p><p>His pinched expression turned on Will, apprehensive. Will straightened up. This situation was all too familiar.</p><p>“Who was it?” Jack asked.</p><p>Price swallowed. Looked away from Will. Placed the magnifying glass down. </p><p>“Hannibal Lecter.”</p><p>Will was careful of his response. Careful not to feign surprise too dramatically. He clenched his jaw, glanced at his feet. Nodded once.</p><p>“Will, you said that any evidence we found would lead us away from the Ripper, right?” Jack said. “Could he have somehow planted this print there? So that we would find it?”</p><p>The second part was directed towards Price. Price shrugged.</p><p>“I guess. It would involve a complicated imprint system where the killer would have had to find something with a clear print, transferred it onto some other material and then transported it to the scene and pressed it onto this petal without damaging it.”</p><p>“But he could have done it?”</p><p>Prince glanced at Will so quickly he might not have caught it, and then looked back at Jack.</p><p>“In a James Bond movie? Maybe. In real life? I don’t know.”</p><p>The door clicked open, and Beverly paced into the lab. There was something in her hands, but Will couldn’t see what it was past the autopsy table.</p><p>“Where have you been?” Jack asked.</p><p>“Evidence lockup,” Beverly said. “You said the victim had puncture wounds?”</p><p>Zeller pointed to the measured, circular punctures in Elise Nichols’ neck. “It’s like she was hung on something. Like hooks.”</p><p>“Not hooks.”</p><p>Beverly crossed further into the room, and when her hands were no longer obstructed by the table, Will could see the clear evidence bag she was holding. Something like bone caught the light as she slid her thumb underneath the seal of the bag and pried it up.</p><p>“Antlers?” Jack asked. “Like the Minnesota Shrike?”</p><p>“Exactly."</p><p>She dropped the evidence bag haphazardly to the floor and leaned over Elise. Holding it in both of her hands, she lowered it carefully towards her neck until it was pressed against one of the wounds. Without any pressure at all, it fit into the wound almost perfectly. She took a deep breath, secure now in her theory, and removed the antler.</p><p>“This antler was found at the Ingram scene,” she said. “It was seized with the rest of his stuff. I thought it was strange, because he wasn’t a hunter.”</p><p>“The farmer’s market,” Will said. “Hunters sometimes sell the things they make.”</p><p>Beverly nodded. She averted his gaze, still not secure enough in their friendship to spare more than a second-long glance towards him. </p><p>“You have antlers on your dining table centerpiece, don’t you, Will?” Jack asked. “Did you get that from the farmer’s market?”</p><p>Will stared at him.</p><p>“What are you implying, Jack?”</p><p>Jack met his gaze, and didn’t drop it when he spoke. </p><p>“Z, tell Graham what you found in the autopsy.”</p><p>In his peripheral, Will saw Zeller swallow anxiously, and flip to the next page on his clipboard.</p><p>He cleared his throat. “We found traces of sodium amytal and scopolamine in Elise’s blood. It came up in Clark Ingram’s autopsy, too.”</p><p>“Doctor Lecter used scopolamine and sodium amytal on Abel Gideon during his therapy,” Jack said, clearly. “Gideon claimed to be the Chesapeake Ripper, and then he killed himself. He left a note admitting that he had only claimed to be the Ripper to avoid execution.”</p><p>Will found himself genuinely speechless. He was furious. Not at Jack, or Price, or Zeller, or even Beverly. At Hannibal. For being so ridiculously self-righteous that he thought he could use the same drug combination and get away with it. That he could kill right in the town they lived in and get away with it. That he could do any of this, and see no consequences. He could rip the stability right out from underneath Abigail like a magician with a tablecloth, and not bat an eye.</p><p>“What did he take?” he asked, seething.</p><p>“What?” That was Zeller.</p><p>“The Ripper always takes something. What did he take from her?”</p><p>Zeller flipped another page and skimmed it for a moment. </p><p>“Her liver showed signs of trauma usually seen in transplanted organs. Fresh stitches. He put it back.”</p><p>Will shut his eyes. “There was something wrong with the meat.”</p><p>“She had liver cancer,” Zeller confirmed quietly.</p><p>They all looked at him. Will couldn’t open his eyes. Couldn’t move at all. Couldn’t breathe. He was waiting for something, anything. Maybe for the other shoe to drop, although he had felt it hit the ground a long time ago.</p><p>Surprisingly, Beverly was the first to speak. “Will…”</p><p>“I have to go home.”</p><p>He took a step back and then started towards the door. He tugged the bottom of his latex glove with his teeth until it came off and did the same with the other, threw them into the trash can by the door. Jack stepped in front of him.</p><p>“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”</p><p>Will gaped. Jack stared back, stoic. The lack of emotion, of <em> anything </em>on his face made Will burn from the inside out. It was the second time in his life, the second time in the past six months, that he had wanted to hit him. That he felt like he could have.</p><p>“Do you really think Hannibal did this, Jack?” he said, quieter than he meant to. “Do you think I’ve been living with the Ripper all these years? You think I <em> married </em>him, and I didn’t know?”</p><p>Jack narrowed his eyes. “I think you should let me handle this.”</p><p>“I think you should let me go home,” Will said. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll get out of my fucking way.”</p><p>There was a tense, silent moment where Will thought Jack wasn’t going to move, and that he would have to make good on his promise. Hurting Jack would only prove what they all already thought. What they would continue to think. What were the odds that two members of his family would be murder suspects? It had to mean something. It <em> did </em>mean something.</p><p>Jack moved, eventually. With a grave expression, he stepped to the side and let Will pass.</p><p>“I hope you know what you’re doing, Will. I hope you know what side you’re choosing.”</p><p>His expression cracked, just a little. His perfect stoicism marred by emotion. Fear, perhaps. Apprehension. Anticipating Will's next step.</p><p>“I’m choosing my family,” Will said, and left.</p><p> </p><p><b>September 13, 2019</b> <b><br/></b> <b> <em>Transcript of interview with key witness Graham, W.</em> </b> <b> <em><br/></em> </b> <b></b> <strong><em>Case No. 653328: Lecter, H. “The Chesapeake Ripper”</em></strong></p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Where did you go when you left the lab that day? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I went home. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>The house was quiet when Will pushed the door open. Usually, there was music, conversation, <em> something, </em>but he walked into an all-encompassing silence. As if the house knew as much as Will did. A pinstripe of warm light streamed across the wooden floor. He walked it like a tightrope to the kitchen door, stood open an inch, and pushed at it carefully.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Was Hannibal Lecter in the house when you arrived? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: He was in the kitchen. I could see the light under the door.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did you draw your firearm at any point? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Hannibal’s back was to the door, shoulders hunched, pulling his white shirt taut as he crushed something beneath the flat side of a knife. He raised his head, a little, smelling him, and gestured towards the chairs on the far side without turning. There was a glass of wine already poured.</p><p>“Take a seat,” he said. “I shouldn’t be much longer.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did he say anything to you, when you entered the kitchen? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will pressed back against the kitchen wall, inching across until he could get his fingers around the living room door handle and tug it shut. The dogs would be safe, now, whatever happened.</p><p>When he looked up, Hannibal was watching him. His expression fell somewhere between confused and concerned; he hadn’t looked at him like that since he’d been seizing and sleepwalking every night. Since Abigail had been on trial. Since he’d pretended to lose time.</p><p>“Is everything alright, Will?”</p><p>Will nodded, swallowed. His voice was unreliable and shaky, “Yes.”</p><p>Brow ticking downwards in concern, Hannibal removed his apron and placed it on the island. He walked towards Will, eyes flicking over his face.</p><p>“I think you should sit down. You don’t look well. Did you lose time again?”</p><p>He moved his hand towards Will’s forehead to check for fever. Will jerked away, darted across the kitchen until his back hit the refrigerator.</p><p>“I don’t want to sit down.”</p><p>Hannibal blinked, recalculating. Thinking. He probably thought Will was paranoid, perhaps delusional. His mind was undoubtedly racing with possible diagnoses: had the doctors missed something? Was this relapse?</p><p>“Okay, Will. It’s okay.”</p><p>He brought both hands up and took a careful step forward, like one might approach a startled animal. He moved as if to touch Will, and then thought better of it and moved past him, to the counter. He picked up the knife he'd been using and scraped off the chopping board, dropped both into the sink.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did you attempt to apprehend him? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Sous-chef, then,” he said. “The tomatoes still need to be chopped.”</p><p>He moved a few inches to the side, giving Will space to turn against the counter. Knowing that Will wouldn’t want his back exposed, he kept close to his side and skipped his middle finger down Will’s spine. Ridiculously, Will leaned back into the familiar touch and reached for the knife block.</p><p>“Use the sharpest knife. It will give the most precise cut.”</p><p>His fingers hovered over the gleaming handles, skipped over them. Eventually, he picked the one closest to him. It almost slipped out of his grip. Hannibal’s gaze flicked to Will’s face, and then to the knife in his hand. His expression took on a practiced blankness. </p><p>He <em> knew </em>.</p><p>Will’s hands shook on the blade as he rested it against the tomato’s soft skin. It wouldn’t take much force to push it down and pierce it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did you say anything to him? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Did you kill Marissa Schurr?”</p><p>Hannibal was quiet for a long moment.</p><p>“Do you believe me capable of killing a child, Will?”</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re capable of, anymore.”</p><p>The knife glinted in the artificial light. If he held it just so, he could see Hannibal on its surface. His reflection pursed its lips thoughtfully.</p><p>“Clark Ingram killed Marissa Schurr,” he said. “Abigail and I helped him dispose of the body.”</p><p>“The others?”</p><p>The answering silence said enough. Will nodded, once.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Witness: No, I didn’t. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did he say anything to you? </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Will you tell Jack?” </p><p>“He knows. About you. He—”</p><p>He had practically begged Will not to go home. He had wondered why, at the lab. But now he knew. He didn’t want him to be in the way. He wasn’t planning on taking the Chesapeake Ripper alive. </p><p>“He knows, Hannibal, he… fuck. Fuck!”</p><p>He slammed his fist down on the counter. The chopping board flipped upwards and slammed back down.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. He didn’t say anything. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>A large, soft palm twisted the knife out of Will’s white-knuckle grip. He pulled him close, flush together, and let Will press his face into the hot skin of his throat. Breathe the sandalwood smell of home for the last time.</p><p>“I should have protected you.”</p><p>“Yes,” Hannibal supposed. He touched the back of Will’s neck, gentle and then firm, tugged his face up until his chin was hooked over Hannibal’s shoulder. His cheek brushed at Will’s ear, voice rumbling through them both, “but there is little point in regret, my darling.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Witness: I didn’t realize he was still holding the knife. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Blunt heat seared through Will’s abdomen. Copper flooded his mouth. Hannibal stroked his curls as his other hand twisted on the now-slippery blade handle. He tore it sideways, ripping through skin and muscle, and held Will’s face against his shoulder to muffle his scream.</p><p>The blade left a strange emptiness behind when Hannibal pulled it out. It didn’t hurt, like his nerve endings had been cauterized.</p><p>Hannibal held him there, suspended, and then let him go.</p><p>He stumbled backwards until he hit the counter. His feet slipped in his own blood, and his palm skidded across the counter-top as he fought to keep himself upright. If he hit the floor, he would probably never get up again.</p><p>He had to stop the bleeding, somehow, or he’d bleed out in minutes. He pressed one arm against his abdomen and grit his teeth against the sudden pain that threatened to sever him in half.</p><p>Hannibal took a kitchen towel down from the oven door, and wiped the blade with it as he crossed to the stairs.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: What did he do next? After he stabbed you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: He called Abigail downstairs. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: What did he say? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: What he always said when he called her for dinner. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“Abigail! Would you come down, please?”</p><p>“Please don’t bring her into this,” Will begged.</p><p>Hannibal’s throat moved under a swallow. Near imperceptible regret for an action not yet taken. Abigail’s footsteps echoed on the stairs. </p><p>“She is already more than involved, wouldn’t you agree?”</p><p>Abigail’s scream when she noticed Will tore through him more severely than Hannibal’s knife. She surged forwards, but Hannibal grabbed her easily around the waist with one arm. He was much stronger than she was.</p><p>The blade glinted against her delicate skin. An ultimatum. </p><p>“Dad?”</p><p>Her eyes were wide and frightened, tears sparkled on her cheeks.</p><p>Will couldn’t speak. He couldn’t comfort her, assure her that she would be okay. He looked at Hannibal, into the face that he had loved so fiercely for so long. For the first time, he found muted fear behind his eyes. </p><p>“Hannibal, please.”</p><p>Abigail grappled uselessly at his arm. She didn’t dare speak, for fear that any movement of her throat would press the blade right into it.</p><p>Hannibal pressed a kiss to her temple. </p><p>“I’m sorry, teacup.”</p><p>In one swift, sick motion, he pulled the blade across her throat. She made an awful gurgling cry, and crumpled in a pool of red red <em>red.</em></p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Do you need to take a moment? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I’m fine. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will pushed against the island and managed to reach her, close enough to get a hand around her throat. It wouldn’t be enough to stop the bleeding completely, not when he was too weak to get a more secure grip.</p><p>The knife clattered at their feet. Forcing breath into his lungs, Will looked up through the sodden mess of his fringe. Hannibal looked down at them. The look on his face was one that Will had never seen before. Something had broken in him. Like disease or, perhaps, like an antidote, it had spread through his body and across his face. He was something Will didn’t recognize. </p><p>He was human, after all.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Witness: He just walked out. I didn’t see him leave. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Did he tell you anything? Did he tell you where he was going? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [The witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p> </p><p>“I’m—” Abigail rasped. “I’m s—”</p><p>He did his best to pull her close, clumsily tugging her between his open legs, and tried to rock her. Just like he had when she was small enough to fit completely in his arms. </p><p>Eventually, she stilled, chest heaving with the after-effort of fighting. He pressed his face to her hair and waited for the inevitable.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: We all want to help you, Will. We want to do the right thing, and I think you do too. So you have to tell me the truth. What happened to your daughter? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [The witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: What happened to Abigail? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> [The witness did not respond.] </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: This can still come out right, Will. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Can it? </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm sorry i'm s</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Trois Gymnopedies: III. "Lent et grave"</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Will wakes up.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: You understand that we are investigating your husband? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: We’ve been here all day talking about him. About why he did this to you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Yes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: You are under oath, do you remember that? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Don’t patronize me, Jack. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Then tell me the truth. What did he say to you when you returned to the house? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: I told you. He didn’t say anything. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Nothing? Nothing at all? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No. He didn’t say anything before he gutted me and slit my daughter’s throat. </em>
</p><p><em> Jack Crawford: What he did — </em> <em>I don’t understand why you won’t help us. This was your family. </em></p><p>
  <em> Witness: Pose a question, Jack. Don’t make speeches. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Goddamn it, Will.  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Will was not naive enough to believe that the light behind his eyelids was the light of heaven. If it was, his throat would not burn so much.</p><p>Multiple pairs of hands held him down when he thrashed against consciousness and choked on the tube supporting his airway. In a moment, cold spread through his veins, and darkness teased at the edges of his vision. He succumbed once again.</p><p>When he came back to the conscious world, it was to an incessant beeping and a silhouette in a chair beside him. Hope burned bright in his chest for a moment before reality crept back in.</p><p>“Will, are you with me? How are you feeling?”</p><p>“Thirsty.”</p><p>There was blurry movement for a moment, and a plastic straw poked at his lips. He opened his mouth a little, and swallowed his first gulps of cold water in he didn’t know how long.</p><p>“How long was—” </p><p>His voice gave out again. He found the straw and drank until the cup was empty. Beverly set it aside.</p><p>“A week. You came out of the coma an hour ago, but you panicked so they sedated you again. Do you want your glasses?”</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>She pressed the plastic frames into his hands, and he felt the tug of the IV when he slipped them onto his face. The world came into shaky almost-focus, and he blinked heavily to clear the last of the fog. </p><p>Beverly tugged her chair closer to him and sat back down. Her expression was carefully objective. While false, he was grateful that she knew not to let her pity show.</p><p>Pity. She should have more pity, she <em> would </em>have if—</p><p>“Abigail— did she— did they—"</p><p>Her hand slipped over his on the bed and held it there, palm pressed gently over the spot where the needle met his skin.</p><p>“She’s alive, Will. In a coma, but alive. You can see her as soon as you’re allowed out of bed.”</p><p>Will felt the need to struggle against his shackles. He could have torn the IV out of his hand and marched to see Abigail right there, but he didn’t. Beverly’s touch kept him tethered.</p><p>“Is anyone—"</p><p>“Alana’s with her,” Beverly said, "her and Margot have been taking it in turns to sit with her, so she won’t be alone when she wakes up.”</p><p>Knowing that Abigail was alive and not alone allowed him the courtesy of slipping back into distant numbness. He slumped back against the pillows.</p><p>“I’m glad. She likes Margot.”</p><p>Loaded silence. There were a million things that she wanted to ask. A million things that he could have asked. Her thumb smoothed over his knuckles, and back again. They’d never been particularly tactile friends before, but he guessed tragedy changed everything.</p><p>“Why did you go back?” she asked, eventually. “Why didn’t you wait for the SWAT team, or me and Jack?”</p><p>“They were going to kill him.”</p><p>Her expression faltered. Guilt. Not just for knowing about Jack’s plan, but for her role in uncovering the truth in the first place. Blissful ignorance would have been better than this. She looked down at their hands. </p><p>“Abigail’s surgeon said that he knew exactly where to cut her to make sure that she survived. Both of you, actually. It was almost surgical.”</p><p>“He didn’t want to kill us.” </p><p>He wasn’t sure if it was a realisation or a confession.</p><p>Beverly’s voice was quiet, “Then what did he want?”</p><p>He thought of Hannibal. Of Clark Ingram. Of Marissa Schurr. Of reactive attachment disorder and Dr Du Maurier’s careful insinuation that what they were was not enough. Of Mischa. He tipped his head back against the stack of pillows and shut his eyes. </p><p>“To keep us safe.”</p><p> </p><p>Three full days later, the hardfaced surgeon reluctantly declared him strong enough to get out of bed, on the strict condition that Beverly didn’t leave his side.</p><p>She took this instruction very seriously, and forced him to loop one hand through the crook of her elbow like an old man on the street. The morphine in his system muted the pain, but he could feel his stitches pressing sickeningly against gauze as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other all the way to Abigail’s ICU room.</p><p>He was expecting Alana or Margot, both of whom had come in to see him a couple of times over the past few days. Alana had been weepy, as much as she tried to hide it. He almost hoped that it was Margot’s turn to watch over Abigail.</p><p>But it wasn’t Margot waiting for them, or Alana. It was Jack standing at the foot of Abigail’s bed, a humble <em> get well soon </em> bouquet cradled in his arms.</p><p>Beverly was as surprised as Will was. </p><p>“Jack? Where’s Dr Bloom?” </p><p>“I sent her home.”</p><p>Will pushed at her, and she very reluctantly let him go. He leaned heavier on his IV stand than he should have as he crossed to Abigail’s bedside. The blue breathing tube in her throat was an ugly obstruction of her soft features.</p><p>Distantly, he heard Jack’s voice. </p><p>“Agent Katz, would you step outside?”</p><p>“He’s still too weak—"</p><p>“That wasn’t a request.”</p><p>The door opened and shut, and the slight step-shuffle of Jack’s stride crossed the room. He placed the bouquet on the side table. </p><p>“I don’t appreciate being lied to, Will.”</p><p>Will touched his fingertips to the thick bandages at Abigail’s throat. She looked so young when she slept.</p><p>“You may have Agent Katz fooled, but the innocent spouse act won’t work on me,” Jack said. “You knew what he was, and you lied.”</p><p>The last time he’d seen her, her hair had been matted with blood. He ran a hand through it, and it passed through his fingers easily. Maybe Alana had brought a comb, one day. Perhaps her and Margot had joined the nurses in working through her hair, flushing scarlet trauma down the drain. He wished he had been able to do it; he should have been there to wash out the remnants of that night.</p><p>“What are you charging me with?”</p><p>In his peripheral vision, Jack’s nostrils flared. </p><p>“Nothing yet. As soon as I can prove it, you’ll be charged as an accomplice to murder, and obstruction of justice.”</p><p>Will dropped into the obnoxious orange plastic chair beside the bed and took her hand in his. Her skin was cold. He sandwiched her hand in both of his to warm her up.</p><p>“I will prove it, Will.”</p><p>Will passed his thumb across Abigail’s knuckles. Her nails were still painted.</p><p>“I’d like to be alone with my daughter.”</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>one left now. thanks for sticking around, friends. please don't hate me &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. Goldberg-Variationen, BWV 988: I. Aria</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The aftermath.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>March 2019</b>
</p><p>Time passed by in molasses. In sleeping and liquid foods and learning to walk with a cane. The doctors insisted that Will didn’t try to beat his body into submission, and he slowly learned not to get frustrated when it wouldn’t do what he wanted. Even though he wanted to stomp his feet and scream that the world was moving too fast for his new slowness.</p><p>Before he knew it, it had been a month, and he was standing at the door of the house where he should have died. There was still crime scene tape on the doorway, and he fished his own key out of an evidence bag. It was wrong. It was all wrong.</p><p>Hannibal was everywhere. He watched Will from picture frames on the walls and a pair of shoes next to the door. He sat in the corner of the kitchen as Will spent three days scrubbing at the floor.</p><p>Alana found him like that, on his hands and knees, fingernails red raw and grinding his jaw against the pain in his abdomen. </p><p>She sank to the floor behind him and put both arms around his shoulders.</p><p>“Will, come on...” </p><p>He fought against her and hissed through his teeth when his stitches tugged. </p><p>“No — Alana, I have to — this fucking stain won’t come out—”</p><p>He barely realised that he was sobbing, scrubbing uselessly at the ugly, off-brown stain on the grouting. Her touch was cautious and gentle, sliding over his wrists and prying his fingers up off the floor. </p><p>He fought and fought, until his stomach burned and the brush went skittering across the floor. A frustrated cry tore from his throat, and he tugged at his own hair instead. His hands were wet and sticky and hurt in his curls. </p><p>“What if — what if Abigail comes home and she — what if she has to see the place where she — where she —”</p><p>The place where she should have died. He couldn’t say it. He couldn’t breathe.</p><p>Alana was careful and firm, wrapped herself totally around him until he had no choice but to collapse against her. He clutched at the collar of her shirt and cried and screamed until his throat burned. She held him through it, let him ruin her jacket and didn’t expect him to be done. She just waited, for as long as he needed her.</p><p>Abigail woke up a few weeks after him. It was another thing he wasn’t there for.</p><p>She slept a lot. He sat at her bedside and waited for her to stir so that he could soothe her back to sleep. He watched the shopping channel on the grainy TV in her room and pretended that Hannibal wasn’t complaining about it from the corner.</p><p>And then, he was staring at a wall of fresh produce and genuinely could not remember if Hannibal preferred green or red apples. It was the first time he’d been in a grocery store in months and he couldn’t remember the last time and he <em> couldn’t forget already. Not now. Please don’t leave yet. </em></p><p>Alana was there to catch him before his knees hit the floor, and Margot was threatening people to <em> keep moving, there’s nothing to see here </em> and Will was crying and everything was wrong and Hannibal was not there. He was not there.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>April 2019</b>
</p><p>They bought a house, because Will couldn’t stare at the space between the kitchen counter and the island anymore. It didn’t go for very much at all, because murder houses didn’t sell for much if they weren’t actually <em> murder </em> houses, but Will just wanted it gone.</p><p>They found a small, understated farmhouse surrounded by miles of empty land, so far out of town that it was a wonder it still had a Wolf Trap zipcode. It needed a lot of work in every way, but the previous owners didn’t know who they were, and they didn’t bat an eye at Will’s cane or Abigail’s puckered scar. How they clung to each other as they walked, like they still couldn't believe that they were real.</p><p>They put a deposit down on their first visit, and were moved in within the week.</p><p>The house creaked and settled around them, bending to their new normal. Abigail started an online high school course, quietly dropped the <em> ‘Lecter-’ </em>from her name and chopped off six inches of her hair in the bathroom one evening. Will only glanced at her over the trout he was preparing and told her it looked lovely.</p><p>He didn’t mention how she stood with her back flush against the kitchen wall, and she didn’t mention how he slept on the couch every night.</p><p>A few weeks into their new life, he came in from the shed workshop to find his bed in the living room. Allen and Winston had already claimed it, and Abigail just nodded and allowed him to gratefully kiss the crown of her head.</p><p>A rush of cold air joined him in bed that night, tentatively replaced by Abigail’s warmth. She hesitated until he reached for her, and let out a grateful sigh when she settled against his chest.</p><p>“Is everything alright?” he asked.</p><p>They didn’t speak much. Even a whisper seemed deafening in the silence.</p><p>She nodded and pushed her face against his t-shirt.</p><p>“Couldn’t stop thinking.”</p><p>He ran his fingers through her hair, and they met air too soon. She hadn’t explained the drastic change, but she seemed lighter without the heavy locks hanging around her face. The healing scar on her throat stood out pink and proud, no longer obscured by anything but the occasional coat collar.</p><p>“Do you think he regrets it?” she asked.</p><p>He shut his eyes. “I don’t know.”</p><p>“I think he misses us. He has to, right?”</p><p>Will didn’t know how to answer that. Accepting that — that he didn’t have the answers, that he perhaps never had — had been the hardest part of all of this.</p><p>“Go to sleep,” he said gently. “I’ll be here when you wake up.”</p><p>“I know.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>May 2019</b>
</p><p>They both silently dreaded Abigail’s impending birthday. Their new life was tentative at best, and Will wasn’t sure whether it had room for any sort of event.</p><p>He woke up early, as he always did, and tried not to think about the past as he preheated the oven. June 25th was the only day of the year that Hannibal condoned cake for breakfast. They would present it to her in the morning, and sit at the foot of her bed as she blew out the candles and hailed in another year. Loved and happy.</p><p>It was nearly ten when he carefully climbed the stairs. The floorboards creaked more than the old house, and betrayed his approach to Abigail’s door.</p><p>Winston ran ahead of him and barreled the door open to reveal her, sat up in bed, surprised at the intrusion. Her expression softened when she saw Will in the hallway, contorting into something bittersweet at the birthday cake in his hands.</p><p>He sat tentatively beside her legs and had the odd feeling that there was not enough weight on the mattress.</p><p>“Happy birthday, guppy.”</p><p>She gave him a watery smile, and leaned forward a little to blow the candles out.</p><p>“Thanks, Dad.”</p><p>They moved quietly around each other for the rest of the morning. She hadn’t seen anyone since they’d moved to the new house, and he allowed her time and space to prepare herself before they met at the car.</p><p>Hannibal hadn’t taken his car with him. The Bentley sat in a dealer’s lot, somewhere, and Will still hadn’t used the money he got for it. He wasn’t sure how Abigail would feel about it going into her college fund.</p><p>“Where are we going?” she asked as she slipped into the passenger seat.</p><p>He clutched the steering wheel for a moment, and pried his hands away to turn the key in the ignition.</p><p>“Secret.”</p><p>She rolled her eyes and flicked the radio on as he backed the car out. What counted as their driveway was nearly a mile long and led onto a country road which took them back into civilization. Abigail kicked her feet up on the dash and tapped her feet to the rhythm of the music.</p><p>The road eventually melted into gravel, which crunched beneath the wheels as Will turned into their destination. Intrigued, Abigail dropped her feet and peered through the windshield.</p><p>“Horses?”</p><p>He smiled at her excitement — she’d loved horses as a child, and had spent countless hours at Margot’s home stable, feeding and petting and being taught to ride. This stable wasn’t nearly as impressive as Margot’s, but it would do.</p><p>She got out of the car first, and waited for him to get his cane from the backseat and follow suit.</p><p>The stablehand was waiting for them at the entrance. Her hair was still in a braid, but she was much happier to see Will this time.</p><p>“Aggie,” he said. “Thank you so much for this.”</p><p>Aggie smiled brilliantly. “It’s my pleasure, honestly. It’s so lovely to meet you, Abigail.”</p><p>She tugged Abigail into a hug. Abigail tensed, for a moment, and then relaxed into it. She was a little winded when she pulled back, and Will placed a hand between her shoulder blades.</p><p>She smiled. <em> I’m okay. </em></p><p>“Ready for some horse therapy?” Aggie asked.</p><p>Abigail nodded, and followed her into the stables.</p><p>Will lingered, uncertain whether to follow them and then decided that he was being ridiculous. She would be fine on her own for a few minutes. Aggie was more than trustworthy.</p><p>He headed around the side of the stables instead, forcing himself to go slower than he wanted to. The door of the white barn was standing open again. He didn’t knock this time.</p><p>Peter was tending to a small bird at the metal table. It wasn’t fighting against him, but it didn’t look like it had been medicated. Just calm, knowing that it was in safe hands.</p><p>“It’s a starling,” Peter explained. “It’ll be okay.”</p><p>“That’s good.”</p><p>With gentle hands, Peter lifted the bird and took it to one of the cages. He shut the door on it carefully, whispered to it through the bars, and his gaze moved to Will. Not his face, but his hands. The walking aid that he leaned on.</p><p>“You’re hurt.”</p><p>Will swallowed. “Yes.”</p><p>Peter thought about that for a moment, and then settled on, “We match.”</p><p>They did, more than Peter would ever know.</p><p>“I have something for you,” Peter said.</p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>Will half-expected it to be a gift for Abigail. Perhaps an animal to hold, if Peter trusted him that much yet. Peter shuffled forward, eyes closed, and presented a piece of glossy paper.</p><p>He opened his eyes when Will took it, and watched cautiously as he turned it over.</p><p>It was a pamphlet. One of the information leaflets that local companies left to be handed out at gas stations. The words blurred on the page, until Will blinked and forced himself to breathe. It advertised a local wedding planner. Innocuous, perhaps, besides the words on the cover:</p><p>
  <em> ‘Til death do us part. </em>
</p><p>“Who gave you this?” Will asked, although he knew.</p><p>“A man,” Peter said. “He came in and he — he said that you would be here soon. And that I should give it to you.”</p><p>Will expected himself to go cold. He didn’t. He felt — if anything — warmed. Phantom breath fanned over his neck, fluttered across his skin and forced him to clutch the paper tighter.</p><p>“Thank you, Peter.”</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: You recently took a trip to Italy. Why was that? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: Things were still hard. Abigail needed to get away, and I wanted to thank Alana for all her help. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: No other reason? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No other reason. </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>August 2019</b>
</p><p>Rome was everything it had promised to be.</p><p>The money he’d made from the Bentley paid for their flights, for all four of them — Alana and Margot included. Margot paid for their accommodation, because she knew the best places and he didn’t want to argue, and they were soon settled into a spacious apartment in the middle of the city.</p><p>In the day, they walked around the museums and explored the city with ice cream dripping down their hands. In the evenings, they ate at as many restaurants as they could find and Alana and Margot didn’t say anything when they left the meat untouched. </p><p>Abigail was cautiously happy and as close to carefree as she could be. She rarely smiled anymore, but when she did it was like the sun peeking through the clouds. The sun had been coming through a lot more than normal on this trip.</p><p>“You need a break,” Alana said one morning, while Abigail was in the shower.</p><p>Will took a sip of his coffee and squinted at the sunrise. The view from their balcony was breathtaking, and the sounds from the street floated up and joined their conversation.</p><p>“I’m having a break. That’s the point.”</p><p>“I meant you need time to yourself,” she said. “Why don’t you take the day off? Stop being super-dad for one day; Margot and I can take Abigail.”</p><p>Will thought of the wedding planner pamphlet, which he’d shoved in the first trash can he’d come across. He didn’t need it. He knew exactly where it would lead him.</p><p>“Really?”</p><p>She leaned across the balcony and covered his hand with hers. “Of course. We’ll take her to the Colosseum, I know she’s been dying to see it.”</p><p>“Okay,” Will breathed. “Thanks, Alana.”</p><p>He watched them leave later that morning, babbling about all the things they wanted to see, and then he got on the first train out of Rome.</p><p>His destination was just under two hours away, and he thrummed with muted anticipation as he watched an unfamiliar country roll by.</p><p>It was familiar enough. Familiar as a place he’d last seen over a decade ago could be. He felt that he was treading familiar trenches when he stepped off the train at Florence and got a cab to his destination.</p><p>The tap of his cane echoed around the high ceilings of the chapel. He walked between the pews, past the bowed heads of scattered worshipers, and half-expected to see Hannibal waiting at the altar. It would have been the first time he’d walked down the aisle.</p><p>He took a seat at the front pew, far from anyone else, and bowed his head.</p><p>It must have been hours before he felt a familiar warmth settle beside him. </p><p>He did not raise his head. He did not look. He didn’t want to know how Hannibal had changed, <em> if </em>he had changed. If he still wore expensive suits and combed his hair every day. If he looked ragged and tired, aged by regret. He didn’t want to know if he had been changed as Will had. On a molecular level.</p><p>“It’s good to see you,” he said, to his hands, although he still had not looked.</p><p>He heard Hannibal breathe. Soft and slow. Steady as he had always been.</p><p>He didn’t speak, so Will continued, “Even as the possibility of free will dissipates, I continue to feel and act like I have it. I don’t. I don’t think I ever did, with you.”</p><p>“I never intended to trap you, Will.”</p><p>His voice did not shock Will. He had been listening to it in afterthoughts since the kitchen floor.</p><p>“But you did,” he said, “and now you’ve cut me loose, and left me untethered. I’m floating somewhere between who I was and who I’m going to be, with no particular pull in either direction.”</p><p>“Where does the difference between our past and our future come from?”</p><p>Will did not, truthfully, have an answer. Not one that he could say with any conviction or note of truth. He watched the minister cross the chancel, unaware that the ground was shattering beneath them. Or, perhaps, that it was coming back together.</p><p>“I forgive you.”</p><p>In his peripheral, Hannibal was tentatively curious. Will shut his eyes.</p><p>“I forgive you,” he said, again, “but Abigail deserves better than this.”</p><p>Hannibal considered that.</p><p>“How is she?”</p><p>“She’s traumatized. She misses you.”</p><p>“I miss her, too.” Hannibal paused. “I don’t suppose you would allow her to see me?”</p><p>“You’re not going anywhere near her. Never again.”</p><p>Hannibal looked down at his own hands, clasped together between his knees. He did not deserve to feel remorseful. </p><p>“Should I repent before you, Will? At my personal altar?”</p><p>Will blinked. The image of Christ, naked and strung up on the cross, was imprinted on the inside of his eyelids. </p><p>“I don’t want you to repent,” he said. “I don’t care how many people you killed, or how you killed them. I care that you lied. You knew that Ingram killed Marissa Schurr, and you lied. You let Abigail be indicted for it. You let her go through Hell, and for what? Because you were curious what would happen? This, Hannibal. This is what happened.”</p><p>He looked at Hannibal, then. Finally. After what felt like three days and a lifetime. He found the same face that he had seen the last time he'd looked upon it. His mask had not been repaired, and he wore his grief and regret like a crown of thorns. The blood dripped into his eyes. He ached and died on a crucifix of his own design.</p><p>“I never lied,” Hannibal said. “Omissions of truth, perhaps, but I never lied.”</p><p>“Technicalities, of course,” Will scoffed. “You always were a stubborn bastard.”</p><p>“And you see me in the past tense, now?”</p><p>He sounded hurt. Quietly. The type of hurt that could slip easily beneath detection. Will heard it. </p><p>“You’re in the past, Hannibal. You <em> are </em> my past — and my present, and undoubtedly my future — but I won’t let you be Abigail’s. I won’t let you do to her what you’ve done to me.”</p><p>“She must make her own way,” Hannibal supposed.</p><p>Will hummed. She would do that, inevitably, in the near future. He knew he couldn’t control what she decided to do then, and he didn’t intend to. As much as it hurt to give her up.</p><p>He had never been prepared to give up on her. Not in court. Not in Dr Du Maurier’s office. Not bleeding out on the kitchen floor. </p><p>“I went to the hospital every day for a month, waiting for her to wake up,” he said, “but, at night, I would walk out until I found somewhere clear and quiet. I looked up at the night sky. At Orion above the horizon and, near it, Jupiter. I wondered if you could see it too. I wondered if our stars were the same.”</p><p>Hannibal was silent.</p><p>“I don’t wonder anymore. I know that they are. That they always will be.”</p><p>Hannibal’s hand slid over his on the bench. A warm, familiar weight. Home.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> Jack Crawford: Do you know where Hannibal Lecter is now? </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Witness: No, I don’t. </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>and, just like that, we're done!</p><p>thank you so much for all of your support throughout me posting this fic. if you left kudos, commented, or even were just a silent observer, you motivated me to keep going and are the only reason why this ever got finished. </p><p>i have another hannigram au in the pipeline, as well as some one-shots, so stick around if you still like me after this lol (i'm so sorry). those will have much happier endings, i promise.</p><p>but who knows? maybe will does know where hannibal is... maybe they are still in contact... find out in... the abigail variations part tw—</p><p>—i'm joking, i'm sorry. maybe once i've recovered from the emotional turmoil of this 50k monster, and finished with the other aus i put on the backburner to finish it.</p><p>thanks for sticking around if you have. you rock! see you at the next one, friends &lt;3</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
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